Remember Berlin
by PsandQs
Summary: Alternative season 10 storyline. When Russian Minister Ilya Gavrik and his wife come to London, quickly followed by the CIA, a drama that started in Berlin more than thirty years ago comes to a head. Will Harry succeed in keeping secret events that could destroy him and wreck the tentative steps he and Ruth have taken towards each other in the aftermath of Albany?
1. Prologue

- 0 –

_O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? _

_Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, _

_Shrunk to this little measure?_

**Julius Caesar, Act III. Scene I.**

**- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

He waits in the dark corridor that leads from the holding cells to the courtrooms, and swears he can smell the fear and despair of those that have gone before him. It emanates from the walls and not even the stench of industrial strength disinfectant can dislodge it. That leads him to ponder what could have necessitated the use of so much disinfectant. None of the scenarios his imagination conjures up is pleasant, and he begins to wonder if the fear and despair is part of him rather than of his surroundings. Two court officers stand outside the door of Court Three, conferring in low voices. Perhaps they're talking about him; the once eminent man now fallen from grace, and he sighs. He lifts his hands to straighten his immaculate tie, then drops them again when he recognises that the gesture betrays his nervousness.

Looking around, he contemplates how many people must have stood here before him with the same hopeless feeling, the same knowledge that this is the end. Some detached part of his brain is fascinated by the thought, by the experience. How many of those people did _he_ put here, in this corridor, never believing he would one day stand here himself? He lifts his hands again, this time to rub his nose and the handcuffs clink softly, and he regards them as though he's only now noticed their presence. This is not how he wants it to end, but he is no longer in a position to influence events. He forfeited that privilege on the day, three months ago, when he made the fateful decision. He shakes himself and expels a slight puff of air. It's no use getting maudlin, now. He is about to have his moment in court and he needs to concentrate, to play the game until the very end.

One of the officers walks towards him and takes his elbow. He resists the urge to shake off the touch.  
"It's time."  
He nods and allows the officer to lead him to the door, its dark wood gleaming in the muted light. Taking a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and fixes an expression of calm concentration on his face. He feels like a gladiator of old, about to be thrown into the arena to do battle with ferocious beasts. The door is opened from the inside and he hears a hush fall over the courtroom. He half expects camera flashes to go off upon his entry until he remembers that no media is allowed at his trial. To his surprise, though, the gallery is full and his eyes register all the faces in a practised sweep. Later, when he can give it his full concentration, he will go back to it and sort friend from foe, separate those who have come in the hope that this is somehow a mistake from those who are here to witness his demise, to slake their bloodlust. There is one face he hopes not to see, but of course it is the first one that registers. He falters momentarily, mid-step, and has to force himself not to look at her again. Instead he focuses his gaze on the fresh faced lawyer waiting for him. The young man gives him a supportive smile. He doesn't smile back; merely takes his place at the table. He holds out his hands, waiting for the cuffs to be removed, but the court officer shakes his head once. Humiliation warms his face and he glances at her, wondering whether she's seen. She has. He drops his eyes to stare at the table, wishing more than ever that she hadn't come.  
"All rise, the Honourable Judge Marshall Sinclair presiding," a voice intones, and there is a general shuffling of feet and creaking of seats as all present stand. The judge ascends the bench briskly, his flowing robes gathered around him. He is an impressive man – tall and thin, with a full head of dark hair. A short, neatly trimmed beard and alert grey eyes give him an air of intelligence.  
"Be seated," he says, his voice deep and well modulated. His eyes come to rest on the accused, and there is a long moment of silence as the two men regard each other solemnly. A few puzzled looks are exchanged in the gallery. Most of them don't know that the two men have in the past worked together closely on occasion.

Judge Sinclair looks away eventually, shifting the papers in front of him around until he is satisfied with their arrangement. It is a delaying tactic; he does not want to be here, does not want to be the one to bring an end to the man in the dock. But he has no choice. It is his duty, and that is something the man across the room understands all too well.  
He looks up and nods at the accused and his lawyer. They rise without instruction, the handcuffs clinking in the pregnant silence. The judge frowns and bites back the urge to order them removed.  
The young lawyer speaks. "Ryan Montgomery representing the accused, my Lord," he announces in a clear, confident voice.  
The judge grunts, and suppresses his anger that they have assigned such an inexperienced man to such a prominent case. The accused deserves better – the best. "The case before me is one of murder in the first degree, with an extradition order to the United States of America on the occasion of a guilty verdict. Will the accused state his name for the record?"  
There is no hesitation. "Henry James Pearce."  
A murmur runs through the courtroom, but Harry keeps his eyes firmly focussed on the judge.  
There is a slight pause as the judge waits for the people to settle down. When absolute silence once again reigns, he asks, "On the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you plead?"  
Harry takes a breath as his thoughts go back three months.

- 0 –

_When he walks into the Home Secretary's office, the gun is already in his hand. Towers and the American look up in surprise, and when he lifts the gun it quickly turns into alarm._  
"_Harry?!" he hears Towers say, but his full focus is on the American. He sights at the middle of the forehead, and the gun is nice and steady in his hand. It is a Glock, not too heavy, and perfectly balanced. When he squeezes the trigger, the Glock never deviates from its target. Everything seems to slow down after that; he is aware of the American falling backwards, of his blood and brains spattering over the wood-panelled wall behind him. Towers throws up an arm in defence and utters a strangled cry of horror before diving behind his desk. The American's leg twitches once, and then he is still. _

_Harry drops the gun, kicks it away and puts his hands on his head. He stands, waiting, as the stench of blood and cordite fills the air. Running feet nears rapidly. He feels empty._

- 0 –

He is aware that every eye in the room is fixed on him, waiting with bated breath for his answer. His lawyer gives him an encouraging nod and he can detect a hint of sympathy in Marshall Sinclair's eyes. For a second he is absurdly tempted to run. But he knows that escape is not an option; the game must be played to the bitter end. So he lifts his chin and gives his answer, and can almost see it drift upon the air once it leaves his mouth.

"Guilty."

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 1

- 0 –

_Caesar, beware of Brutus: take heed of Cassius; _

_come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; _

_mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast_

_wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, _

_and it is bent against Caesar. If thou beest not immortal, _

_look about you. Security gives way to conspiracy. _

**Julius Caesar, Act II. Scene III.**

**- William Shakespeare**

- 0 -

_Five months earlier  
Thames House, London_

There are many changes on the Grid. Harry is suspended a mere three days after the showdown on the rooftop with John Bateman, pending an Inquiry into the events surrounding the loss of the Albany file. Before the week is out, a new Section Chief is foisted on them in the shape of Erin Watts, a woman with sharp features, thick glossy dark hair and impossibly high heels and tight skirts. Ruth can't help but resent her a little, even when she proves to be highly efficient and perfectly civil. Even when she professes a deep admiration for Harry. She brings with her a second techie, a brash irreverent man named Calum Reid. Tariq is mortified and offended, and the two become locked in a subtle 'tech-off' almost right from the word go. Dimitri is willing to give the newcomers the benefit of the doubt at first, and Ruth, perhaps a tad unkindly, suspects that it may have something to do with Erin Watts' looks. But he changes his mind when Erin, barely a week after her arrival, summarily decommissions Beth. For sometime after that the atmosphere remains frosty, punctuated by a feeling of 'us' versus 'them'. It is an untenable situation, and Ruth knows it – knows how dangerous it can be when they have to depend on each other for support during operations. She has a quiet word with Dimitri and Tariq, and makes a greater effort to hide her resentment of the fact that someone else is sitting in Harry's office.

They are expressly ordered not to contact their boss during his suspension, and Ruth lasts a month before she rebels. Late at night, when all the others have gone home, she hacks into the surveillance records on the subject codenamed Galahad. They are painstakingly detailed, even listing the items he bought at the supermarket: two tins baked beans, two tins peas, two tins tuna, potatoes, eggs, bread, Marmite, five frozen meals for one, milk, chocolate buttons. He hasn't had any visitors. None. His movements are restricted to trips to the supermarket, the library, and a nearby pub. She glances over the reports on his visits to the pub – he only ever talks to the barmaid, and never has more than two drinks before he leaves again. A grainy surveillance photo shows him sitting alone in a booth, shoulders hunched and eyes contemplatively focussed on the amber liquid in the glass before him. He looks burdened, worried. Lonely. Perhaps it is the ordinariness of his existence away from the Grid, or the fact that this is the first time she sees him in casual attire, but the realisation suddenly hits home – Harry is just a man, in the end. An extraordinary man to be sure, but still just a man, trying to hold on to his humanity in the face of impossible odds, impossible choices. Her heart aches, and without really being aware of it, she makes her decision. She gathers her things and heads outside, where she flags down a cab. She clambers in and gives her destination to the cabbie without hesitation.

- 0 –

_Harry's house, London_

He contemplates the meagre contents of his fridge, then closes it again without removing anything. He can't face another frozen meal for dinner. Fleetingly he toys with the idea of going to the pub and eating there, but he also can't stomach the prospect of having to smile at Eileen, to make small talk and to pretend that his life is in any way normal, like those of her other frequent customers. He is melancholy tonight, and even the concept of warming baked beans seems a Herculean task. Marmite toast and sweet tea it is, then. He switches on the kettle and reaches for the bread without registering his actions. His energy is focussed inwards, intent on keeping the ever-present darkness that lurks at the edge of his conscious at bay. He does not want to go there – that place where his deepest fears, failures and guilt are buried. But ever since Towers uttered those words, it has constantly threatened to rise to the surface.  
_There is going to be an Inquiry. Into you, your whole career._  
The toast pops up and he jerks his head toward it, makes a conscious effort to redirect his thoughts. Marmite toast and sweet tea. He likes the contrast of the tastes, enjoys the way the sweetness of the tea takes the edge off the saltiness of the Marmite. Yes. A much safer topic than worrying about past misdeeds that may come out at the Inquiry. Sweet wins out over salty, much like Ruth's gentle nature tends to conquer his baser instincts-  
Shag. Maybe not so safe a topic.

Not for the first time he wonders whether he should simply resign, spare everyone involved the ordeal of an Inquiry. Spare Ruth, most of all. He worries that she will be dragged into it, that she will become guilty by association. It would be grossly unfair, as she's made it very clear that there is no association other than work between them, but when has life ever been fair? To her, especially? It may well be the most honourable thing he could do, for her; resign and walk away. Remove from her life the burden of his love, that he seems unable to keep locked away. And yet… He can't help but feel that it will also be a cowardly act. He has never in his life shied away from a fight, and he doesn't want to do so now. Most of all he doesn't want to give her the impression that he regrets what he did, or that he in any way thinks it was the wrong thing to do. He would do it again, he knows, even though it may have caused her to lose all respect for him. At least she is still in the world, still alive to do so. For a moment he contemplates a future without her regard, and it stretches bleak and endless before him. But then, he probably never deserved that regard in the first place, he thinks gloomily as the darkness flickers around the edges once more.

The doorbell startles him from his musings, and he freezes. He is not expecting anyone – has been brutally reminded how empty his life is outside the office during his visitless suspension. Maybe it's Catherine; he left a message for her just the other day. He pulls open the door to find the person he least expects, but yearns to see most standing on the other side.  
"Hello, Harry," Ruth says, and her voice has an almost imperceptible catch in it.  
He is caught completely off-guard, and for a second he fears he has gone completely mad and she's not really here; that he's conjured her here through intense longing. But then reality intrudes and he's instantaneously aware of the blue van parked a few houses down the street. The surveillance van with all it implies, and fear for her almost squeezes the breath out of him. He startles her by stepping outside, grabbing her arm and attempting to steer her away from the door. But she is surprisingly strong; she digs in her heels and refuses to budge.  
"What are you-"  
His eyes flick towards the van again before they return to her face, and he says urgently, "You shouldn't be here!"  
To his consternation she merely smiles at him, and there is something in that smile that makes him pause. It is serene, at peace, that smile. Something has shifted inside her, towards him, and he can read it plainly in her face even before she says, "Yes, I should."  
He tries again, but it is half-hearted at best. "Ruth-"  
She cuts him off. "It's what people do, you see, Harry. They support their loved ones through difficult times, and they don't allow some stupid rule to prevent them from doing so."  
He stares at her, dazed, his breathing heavy. His hand still clutches her elbow and she touches it softly.  
"Please. Let me?"

Across the street, the junior surveillance officer glances at his superior.  
"We should report this."  
He sounds uncertain, and when the senior officer looks at him he sees the same sympathy he himself feels for Sir Harry reflected in that look.  
"Leave them be. What's the harm in it?" the older man says, much to his younger colleague's relief, and they watch quietly as, across the street, Sir Harry leads Miss Evershed inside and closes the door. Neither makes a note on the surveillance log, and eventually the senior officer rewinds the video surveillance footage and erases five minutes from it.

- 0 –

_Same time  
Grozny, Chechnya_

The Russian strides into a brightly lit room, and the light catches his mane of silver hair and makes it sparkle. It is a basement, in a secluded house on the outskirts of the city. This is a delicate part of the operation, and if something should go wrong now, there would be nothing but rubble left of the elegant house. The place probably belonged to some long-dead Russian aristocrat at some stage, and such a possibility amuses the Russian. He enjoys irony, has learnt to appreciate it in his attempts to understand his enemy better. A very British thing, irony, he muses. Somehow the Americans don't seem to appreciate it quite as much. A pity, really. He looks around the room. Five men are concentrating hard on their task, pouring powder and a strong-smelling liquid carefully into very small containers. They are surrounded by gallon drums of the liquid. HAIR BLEACH is stencilled in large capital letters on the drums. On one end of the table large bags of nitrogen fertilizer are stacked, only the top one open. The man observes the scene for another minute before he turns on his heel and walks back up the stairs.

When he enters the study, the two people already there look up expectantly.  
"How are we doing?" the short, plump man behind the desk asks.  
"We haven't been blown to pieces yet, so I'd say well," the Russian says, and smiles at his own wit.  
The other two stare at him and he sighs inwardly. Apparently Chechens also lack somewhat in the sense of humour department. His eyes are drawn to a photograph that lies on the desk. In it a man stares straight into the camera, unsmiling. The receding blond hair is beginning to turn gray, but the brown eyes reflect the man's undisputed intelligence. He nods towards it.  
"What are we going to do about him?"  
The third man in the room speaks for the first time, his American accent grating on the ear of the Russian.  
"Leave him to me. He's given us the perfect opportunity to destroy him."  
"How?" the Russian asks curiously.  
"He's facing an Inquiry. Apparently he has once again made a fool of himself over a woman. A few words in the right ear about his past misdeeds, and he won't be a problem anymore."  
The Russian's gaze goes back to the photograph, to the brown eyes staring unflinchingly back. Too bad, he thinks. He admires a man who does things in full measure, with passion. That is something Russians understand, after all.

- 0 –

_Harry's house, London_

Once the door closes behind them and they are alone in the privacy of his house, the familiar awkwardness returns. They stand just inside the door and smile shyly at each other, both aware what this moment represents and both terrified that they will say something that will ruin it. Ruth takes a step towards him and murmurs his name, and it brings him out of his joyful trance. He suddenly remembers why they are here, what has brought them to this moment. Most of all he remembers what lies ahead.  
"Ruth," he says, and the tone of his voice stops her in her tracks.  
"You once told me timing is everything." He doesn't want to bring up a memory that is painful for both of them, but he knows he must. She watches him warily, not saying anything, wondering where he is going with this.  
He sighs, half-reaches a hand towards her and drops it again. "I fear this may have been one misdemeanour too many. The odds of surviving this Inquiry is-"  
She shakes her head, refuses to let him say it. "We'll figure something out. Albany doesn't even work."  
He smiles sadly, his weary heart warmed by her conviction, before he admits, "It's not these latest events I'm worried about."  
She searches his face, her mind conjuring up his personnel file, the one she surreptitiously accessed once she realised that she was falling for him all those years ago, and she remembers the many blacked out spaces in that file. Spaces, she knows, that signify operations deemed too sensitive to keep record of.  
"Well, we'll…" She takes a deep breath, and another step towards him. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Somehow."  
And suddenly he doesn't want to fight against it anymore. Even if it were just for tonight, he wants to have this time with her. So he closes the remaining distance between them and draws her against him. Her arms go around his middle and he savours the warmth, the simplicity of human contact.  
"Thank you, Ruth. For coming," he says into her hair, and she squeezes him tighter in response. His heart beats under her cheek, quite fast, and it makes her smile into his shoulder. It matches the rhythm of her own.

He pulls back and clears his throat. "Tea? I was about to make some."  
She nods, and he directs her to the living room whilst he goes into the kitchen to make the tea, fighting the urge to whistle. It is only when he sees the toast half-covered in Marmite that he remembers the reason for his earlier melancholy mood. The postcard. The message that has brought the darkness he has worked so hard to suppress to the surface. The postcard that he left on the coffee table in the living room. He rushes from the kitchen, but when he enters the room he sees that he is too late. Ruth stands next to the table, the two halves of the separated postcard in her hands. In the one, the seemingly innocent picture of the Berlin wall, artfully illuminated at night. In the other, the message scrawled in pencil:

_They're coming for you  
Remember Berlin_

Ruth lifts her gaze to him. "Harry?" she asks, naked fear in her voice.  
"Who's coming for you, and what happened in Berlin?"  
Harry stares at her in horror, and then he closes his eyes against the overwhelming guilt and self-loathing. Ruth sees it all, and feels her world tilt dangerously on its axis. Somewhere deep inside she instinctively knows that she holds the first thread of the thing that may tear them apart for good in her hands, and she opens her fingers to let it flutter to the ground. It makes no sound as it settles on the carpet between them.

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 2

- 0 –

_Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see  
Thy honourable mettle may be wrought  
From that it is disposed; therefore it is meet  
That noble minds keep ever with their likes;  
For who so firm that cannot be seduced?_

**Julius Caesar, Act I. Scene II.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_May 1981  
Berlin, West Germany_

Harry cautiously makes his way to the safe house where he is to meet his asset. Anticipation, desire and guilt twist his stomach into a knot. He has been cultivating Elena Gavrik for months, slowly weaving his web of charm and seduction around her, and ten weeks ago he finally managed to turn her. She is a significant prize – the wife of the senior KGB intelligence officer stationed in East Berlin – and she has begun to provide him with vital intelligence almost immediately. Ilya Gavrik, for all his cunning tradecraft when dealing with the enemy, apparently trusts his wife and often lets sensitive documentation lie around openly in his study. Elena has proved a dab hand with a miniature camera, and already she has produced reams of photos of these documents. Head Office is practically salivating over the high grade intelligence, and has promptly shared it with the Americans. Harry wishes his superiors were less eager to impress the behemoth across the pond and would rather concentrate on ploughing Britain's own furrow, but no. It seems MI6 in particular, to which he is currently seconded, still suffers from an inferiority complex after the exposure of the Cambridge Five. They are apparently more interested in proving to the Americans that they have got their house in order and can still play with the big boys, than in doing anything with the information themselves. As a result he has been ordered to work closely with the CIA. His main liaison, Jim Coaver, is a decent enough sort, and Harry feels he can trust him not to fuck up this operation for them. But Coaver is only one part of a much bigger contingent of CIA officers here in Berlin, some of whom seem to think that they are cowboys and this is the Wild West, and that they can achieve their aims through brash posturing and intimidation. Harry has pleaded with Jim to keep the identity of his source to himself, but he has no way of knowing whether the American has done so.

Elena is only one cog in an extensive network of assets – some run by him, and many others run by the Americans. In a sense she is the final piece of the puzzle that affords them unprecedented cover and access to the activities of the Stasi and KGB. They have already been able to thwart a couple of KGB operations – including the assassination of a liberal West German politician – and pleased though he is with their progress, Harry can't shake a growing feeling of unease that it is about to blow up in their faces. He has certain suspicions – it has all been just a smidgen too easy, and that worries him. When he voiced these concerns to Jim, the American called him a 'paranoid, dour Englishman' who does not know how to accept his good fortune.

He bristles again at the thought of that conversation:  
"_That's Scotsmen," Harry replies tartly._  
"_What?"_  
"_Scotsmen are dour. Not the English. We are pugnacious, the plucky underdog. And my assets look upon me almost as a liege, and I have a certain responsibility to those I believe to be genuine."  
Jim stares at him, and then he laughs._  
"_A liege? What are you, from the nineteenth century? These people are betraying their country through greed or spite, and we owe them nothing. Relax, Harry. We haven't picked up anything false in the information. It's all for real."_

But Harry remains unconvinced, and that is why he is here, in the listening post he has secretly set up in the house across the street from the safe house, carefully observing the goings-on. He has nothing other than his instinct to go on, and he can't even explain who it is that he is suspicious of – his American counterparts, or the Russians. His thoughts go to the woman inside the safe house, the woman he has been sleeping with. A man could easily lose himself in her, her startling beauty, the hint of aloofness that makes him want to explore her, to discover everything about her. Her adventurous nature between the sheets. Oh yes, there is that as well, so different from Jane. He feels a stab of guilt at the thought of his wife. He can tell himself all he wants that he is merely doing his job, but deep down he knows that this is more than that, and the guilt has become a constant malignant presence in the back of his mind. Perhaps that is why he is waiting here in the shadows. Part of him wants to ignore all these suspicions and march across the street and take Elena straight to bed, but he doesn't. The memories of what happened in Belfast are still fresh, still so very painful, and he won't betray Bill's sacrifice to satisfy his own wants. Not ever. He promised himself that, standing over the mutilated body of the friend he failed to protect.

Movement across the street draws his attention. A man slips out of the apartment and he watches in mounting horror as, moments later, two big black cars race up to the door and eight burly men pile out. They kick down the door of the safe house without compunction, and he slips the earphones on.  
"Where is he?" a gruff voice demands in Russian.  
"Idiots! He's not here yet," a female voice answers. "I told you to wait until I give the signal." Elena's voice, and he feels cold.  
"You've blown it," she spats, and he hears the rustle of a paper. "You better move on these names, before the Englishman realises something is wrong."  
Harry swallows, the faces of the low grade agents whose names he let slip flashing before his eyes. The faces of the people that he has just condemned to death, in all probability. He stands for a moment longer, paralysed by self-loathing, by the image of Bill's dead stare, before he yanks the earphones from his head and begins to run.

- 0 –

_Present day, late night  
Harry's house, London_

Silence hangs heavy between them. Harry sits on the sofa, his eyes fixed on the carpet. She is perched on the edge of the chair opposite and he dares not look at her, terrified of what he will see in her face. It is counter-intuitive, after years as a spook and having to bury so many secrets, to tell her of these events, but he does so. He forces the words out through a throat tight with shame, because he would rather let her hear it from him than in an impersonal Inquiry room, before a host of strangers.  
Ruth speaks first. "What happened then?"  
He takes a deep breath. "I burst into the office and told Jim what happened. My plan was to warn the low grade agents."  
When he doesn't continue, she demands, "And?"  
He lifts anguished eyes to hers. "Jim stopped me. He pointed a gun at me and told me I'd been made a fool of; that the Russians were already rolling up our entire network. He said that they must have been following me from the moment I first approached Gavrik's wife, and that I, too busy lusting after Elena and thinking with my 'dick', failed to notice. Later on the CIA covered everything up, as they were wont to do in those days."  
"And were you?" she asks, needing to know. "Lusting after Elena and thinking with your dick?"  
He flinches at the sound of the crude word uttered in that beloved voice. So many things between them already that she can hold against him – will this be the last straw? There were mitigating circumstances, he feels; he was young, his best friend had been killed not that long ago and he increasingly realised that he had made a mistake in marrying Jane, but he won't use these as an excuse. Not to her. Her, he owes the truth. "Yes, I lusted after Elena. And it is possible that because of that I failed to notice surveillance on me. But I don't think so."  
He watches her watch him speculatively, and thinks he knows what is going through her mind. _Wishful thinking_.  
"But you can't know for sure either way," she says, and he hears an undertone of accusation, but perhaps it is only in his imagination.  
He remembers another note, this time sent by him:

_You're safe now.  
Until the time comes.  
Remember Berlin._

He buries the memory again, hastily, and shakes his head. "No, I can't know for sure either way."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, the faces start parading before him. So many assets, tortured and shot. He drops his head and closes his eyes against the emotion. He hears her stand and resigns himself to losing her. _Remember this moment_, he brutally tells himself. This moment when she finally sees you for what you are, the moment she leaves you for good. He waits for the sound of the door closing behind her, but it never comes. Instead he feels her soft hands on his cheeks, lifting his head. Rather than the expected revulsion and disappointment, her face is filled with determination and love. For she too remembers – her desperation when he went off to meet Lucas and she thought she would never see him again; and her relief, deep and profound, when she realised he had survived. She will not throw it all away over something that happened three decades ago, when he was still finding his way in this murky world they inhabit.  
"We'll figure it out, Harry. Together."  
A weight lifts from his soul and he stands, feeling so much that he can't find any words. Instead he lets his actions speak for him. He pulls her against him and finds her lips, and kisses her with everything that he has.

- 0 –

_One week later, mid-morning  
Whitehall_

The car draws up outside the building and Harry takes a deep breath.  
"Good luck, sir," the young driver says earnestly, and Harry smiles wanly. Perhaps Ruth is right – she asserted that there is significant goodwill towards him and that most of those in the know hopes that he gets off with a slap on the wrist. He warms at the memory of their discussion and what followed.

"_They code-named you Galahad, for goodness' sake," she says, her exasperation making him smile._  
"_They obviously don't know me very well," he responds. "The last thing I can claim is that line from the Tennyson poem: 'My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.'"  
He ponders for a moment. "Of course, in that poem Galahad also says, 'I never felt the kiss of love, nor maiden's hand in mine.' Perhaps they were thinking about that."  
She lifts an eyebrow and mutters, "Hardly true in your case."  
His look becomes intense as he says, "It's been true for some years now, though."  
They watch each other, feeling the desire arc between them. He sees her swallow and take a steadying breath before she says, "That's easy enough to rectify, Sir Galahad."  
For a moment he stops breathing, but soon he is standing and pulling her to her feet, a determined glint in his eye.  
He quotes, "'If I could write the beauty of your eyes, and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say 'This poet lies; such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.''"  
She looks at him with tender amusement. "Tennyson _and_ Shakespeare? Is this how you normally try to seduce women?"  
His answer is immediate. "Oh no, Ruth. Only you. I haven't done this sort of thing for a while. Besides, I suspect it would be wasted on most other women." He pauses, before asking somewhat crestfallen, "Is it not working?"  
Her voice drops an octave. "Oh, it's working, Harry. It's definitely working."  
They laugh together, gazing at each other, and he cradles her cheek in his palm as he explains, "I never seem to be able to find the right words when I'm with you, so I thought I'd better let the greats speak for me."_

"Sir?"  
The driver's voice drags him back to the present.  
"Yes. Right." He gets out and strides toward the building, head held high.  
On the pavement a man barrels into him. "Oh! So sorry," the man exclaims and for a second Harry looks into a very familiar face before the man ducks his head and disappears around the corner. As Harry stares after him, he feels the weight of something in his left pocket - a weight that wasn't there before.

He goes to the Men's Room and locks himself inside a cubicle before he pulls the object out. A mobile with a piece of paper wrapped around it. There is a brief message written on it in Morse code:

_Urgent, call me, Rx_

On the mobile he finds one number, unknown to him. It's not her normal number. He dials it, suddenly nervous.  
"Hi," she says, and his heart lifts.  
"Ruth. Using Malcolm to perform a brush pass? Tut-tut," he teases gently, and it elicits a soft laugh from her.  
He is still marvelling at the ridiculous amount of joy it gives him to make her laugh when she drops her bombshell.  
"The government has decided to move closer to the Russians, Harry, in their continued attempts to put some distance between us and the US. Towers has been tasked with driving a security agreement with Russia. The Russians will be sending their Minister of Security to London."  
Harry closes his eyes as a feeling of dread settles in his stomach. He already knows what she is going to tell him even before she says it.  
Ruth continues, "Minister Ilya Gavrik will arrive in two days' time… Accompanied by his wife, Elena."

_tbc _


	4. Chapter 3

- 0 –

_There is a tide in the affairs of men  
Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;  
Omitted, all the voyage of their life  
Is bound in shallows and in miseries._

**Julius Caesar, Act IV. Scene II.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 -

_Whitehall, London_

He clutches the mobile tightly as a million thoughts go through his mind.  
"Harry?" Ruth says, and he can hear the apprehension in her voice.  
"Ruth," he counters, his voice calm and authoritative. "It'll be fine. Put me through to Towers."  
There is a moment's silence. "Now?" she asks.  
"Yes. It's imperative that I form part of the delegation."  
"Is that wise?"  
He takes a breath. "It was thirty years ago, Ruth. I know what I'm doing."  
Even though she doesn't say a word, he can sense her concern. But she does as he asks, and moments later the Home Secretary's voice comes on the line.

- 0 –

_Half an hour later  
Inquiry into Sir Harry Pearce_

There are three of them, two women and a sour-looking man. Harry knows all of them by reputation. The convenor of the Inquiry he knows to be from the Legal department, and he finds that interesting. So they intend to do this by the book, and fleetingly he wonders whether he can use that to his advantage. The door behind him opens and he glances around, and his heart warms and clenches simultaneously.

"_I'll come to the Inquiry," she announces suddenly into the silence. They are curled together, and she punctuates the statement with a kiss to his chest._  
"_No." He puts as much authority into his voice as a man in post-coital bliss is capable of. "You need to disassociate yourself from me, and if you're there, it'll have the opposite effect."  
She smiles against his skin. "Too late for that, I should think. Besides, I've told you, it's what people do."  
He finds her hand, entwines their fingers. "For their loved ones?" he murmurs, and she squeezes his hand._  
"_For their loved ones," she affirms._

He blinks back to the present, and she is still there. He frowns disapprovingly at her, and she shrugs slightly. And for the first time he understands – just as he is helpless against his driving compunction to protect her, to save her always, similarly is she. He wonders, morbidly, whether such a love stands any chance of survival, or whether it is inevitable that it will destroy either or both of them in the end. For a moment longer he watches her, draws strength from her presence, before he turns away to face the music.

The Convenor tidies her papers in front of her, and then looks up at him. "Sir Harry," she begins. "We are here to interrogate the events from a month ago, when a Top Secret file ended up in the hands of the Chinese."  
She proceeds to provide a summary, and Harry listens uncomfortably. Though he will never change his mind that it was the right thing to do, it is still sobering to listen to the stark facts. One of his brightest, a man he admired and respected, had lived a lie for decades. And when his past finally caught up with him, they were all sucked into it. Desperate men do desperate things – and often for love. It is a fact he is all too familiar with, and in a strange twist of fate, it may well cause his own past to catch up with _him_.  
"The fact is that you put your personal feelings above the interests of the country when you made the decision to hand Albany over to John Bateman," she concludes.  
All is quiet before she adds, "This necessitates the examination of your professional history, Sir Harry, to ascertain whether this incident is an anomaly, or whether it is a trend that we should be concerned about."

Harry can feel Ruth tense behind him, and knows it is now or never. He wants to prevent these proceedings from delving too deep into his past, so he takes his chance.  
"May I comment?" he asks, careful to afford the panel the required respect.  
The Convenor, somewhat surprised and caught slightly off-guard, nods.  
"I did not make the decision based on my feelings," he announces, putting as much confidence into the words as possible.  
He is greeted by a stunned silence. The Convenor recovers first.  
"Do not insult the panel's intelligence," she says sharply. "Your history with Miss Evershed is widely known-"  
Harry interrupts, unwilling to let these people define his relationship with Ruth. "I was faced with a choice between two important assets. Ideally I would have wanted to keep both, and I tried to do so, but it didn't work out."  
The Convenor lifts an eyebrow. "Are you saying Miss Evershed is just another asset to you?"  
"She is the best analyst the Intelligence Services has. I've prepared a report that highlights her worth to this country," he hastens on, sensing that the Convenor is about to interrupt. He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out the report, offering it to the Convenor. An usher collects it and hands it over, and he watches as the Convenor pages through the impressively thick document.  
"I have highlighted all the times her intelligence and quick thinking was the difference between success and failure of operations. Not only that, but she has proven effective in the field, especially in instances where brains rather than brawn was required."

The Convenor closes the report slowly and rests her hands on it as she gathers her thoughts. "No-one here disputes Miss Evershed's value, but you can't seriously expect us to believe that it was uppermost in your mind when you decided to give Albany away." She makes no effort to hide her incredulity.  
"I had to choose between a state secret that only has value as a deterrent, and an invaluable human asset that will serve the needs of the country for years to come. I chose to save the more valuable asset," he persists obstinately. He has no other defence.  
The Convenor opens her mouth, but her words are cut off by the ringing of a phone. It is handed to her and while she speaks into it, Harry glances around at Ruth. She looks worried and he doesn't blame her. It's clear that the panel doesn't believe him.  
When the Convenor puts down the phone, her expression is tight; she is definitely not happy. "Sir Harry, you are to report for duty immediately. A security matter has come up that requires your expertise and experience. The Inquiry is therefore suspended until the conclusion of this matter."  
Harry breathes a sigh of relief and gathers his papers. He wants to get out of this room as soon as humanly possible. As he stands and heads for the door, the Convenor speaks again.  
"This is not over. You _will_ be called to account." She holds Harry's gaze for long seconds, and he nods once. There is no mistaking her sincerity.

Once outside, he waits for Ruth to catch up with him. They share a relieved smile before she falls into step at his side.  
"Towers?" she asks.  
"Yes."  
"So he agreed to include you in the negotiations with the Russians."  
Her apprehension is unmistakable.  
"Yes." Harry stops walking and lays a hand on her arm. "Ruth. I'm older and wiser. I won't repeat the mistakes of the past. But we have an unprecedented opportunity to secure access to the highest level of Russian decision making, and we would be fools to let it pass us by."  
Ruth stares at him, incredulous and alarmed. "You're going to once again attempt to turn Elena Gavrik? My God, Harry!"  
He watches her, and for a moment it looks as though he is about to say something, but then it passes and he turns away.  
"We need to get back to the office."  
Ruth follows after a beat, extremely perturbed by this turn of events.

- 0 –

_One hour later  
Texas, US_

The phone rings just as the American is about to leave. He glances at his watch before turning back and answering it with a touch of impatience.  
"Yes?"  
"You said you would take care of Harry Pearce," a heavily accented voice says accusingly. "The Inquiry has been suspended and he has returned to work."  
The American pauses; this is unexpected and unwelcome news.  
"I'll take care of it. Proceed as planned. I have to go – big day today."

He walks outside, and the car is waiting, idling at the kerb. Its doors are festooned with placards displaying a photo of another man on a red, white and blue background. From the photo Jeff Wilmore smiles reassuringly at the voting public. _For a stronger, safer future_, the slogan below the face proclaims. The American gets in the back and the car pulls away smoothly. The young man in the front passenger seat turns around and hands the American a sheaf of papers. "The latest version of the speech," he says, and the American takes it and begins to read.

- 0 –

_London, the Grid_

Harry is back in his office. It is strange; it is all so familiar and yet he can sense subtle differences in the atmosphere, differences that remind him that much has changed since he has last stood in this space. Ruth hovers behind his shoulder silently, giving him a moment to absorb everything.  
"She's altered my bloody chair," he grumbles, a feeble attempt to hide the wave of sentiment that suddenly washes over him. This is _his _office.  
"I'll get Q Branch to have a look at it." Ruth watches him with a gentle smile, and he knows that she sees right through him. He has always found the sensation uncomfortable, disliking the feeling of vulnerability that goes with it. But not with her. With her it comforts him, and he blinks in surprise. Their eyes hold, both fleetingly lost in the same memory.

"_Perhaps I should just resign," he says, "spare everyone the ordeal of an Inquiry."  
Her hand curls around his bicep, squeezing the muscles she has been idly tracing for the last few minutes. When she lifts her head from his chest to stare at him, he can sense her surprise. Her eyes roam over his face, searching out every flicker of emotion._  
"_Everyone? Or just me?" she asks at length, shrewdly.  
He moves his right arm further around her, enjoying the sensation of bare skin sliding over bare skin, until his hand finds her hip. He loves the way her hipbone fits so well into his palm. It is a miracle, he thinks, them, here, like this._  
"_Does it matter?" he asks lightly, and she tenses under his touch._  
"_Of course it matters! You shouldn't do it for me."  
His fingers flex on her hip as he ponders her statement, watching her in the muted light._  
"_You've done it for me," he points out, and she is momentarily put off her stride._  
"_That was different."  
He snorts in disbelief. "How exactly?"_  
"_Because the Service needs you, Harry."  
He is incredulous. "You think I'm worth more than you? Ruth-"_  
"_You know it's true, though," she overrides him._  
"_I know nothing of the sort!" he says hotly. "You underestimate yourself. You are invaluable. Irreplaceable," he adds more softly, and she swallows whatever argument she was about to proffer.  
Her hand moves to his face, traces his cheek and his mouth. "Are we still talking about the Service?" she asks, and moves her fingers to the crinkles at the corner of his eye as he smiles._  
"_Obliquely," he murmurs, and she laughs, leans forward and kisses him. Many times.  
When they eventually stop, she nestles her head back under his chin. "What would you do? If you resigned."  
He is quiet as he contemplates the question. "I don't know. Maybe I'll go to a far-flung corner of our former Empire, buy a run-down old pub somewhere on a beach, and name it something unoriginal such as Pearce's Parlour, or Harry's Hole."  
She smiles at the image; she can actually picture a relaxed Harry lean on the bar, chewing the fat with his regulars. Debating the state of the world and solving its problems. And just for a moment, she wishes. But instead she says, "Don't make any hasty decisions. We'll figure it out," and he holds her closer against him._  
"_All right."_

The phone startles them back to the present, and Harry moves over to the desk and picks it up.  
"Harry Pearce," he says, and Ruth smiles.  
"Home Secretary," Harry acknowledges, his eyes lifting to Ruth's. He listens for some time. "Yes," he says cryptically and returns it to the cradle.  
He stands, lost in thought, until Ruth prompts, "What?"  
When he looks at her, she can't quite read his expression.  
"There's a cocktail function tonight to welcome the Russian delegation. Towers wants me to attend and cosy up to the Gavriks."  
Unease flickers across her face and he can almost feel her withdraw from him slightly. "Oh."  
"I need a Plus One," he says quickly, anxious to reassure her. "Will you help? I'm sorry, I know it's not the best night out, but-"  
"Needs must," she completes for him with a tiny smile.  
"Exactly," he concurs, very aware that she hasn't answered him yet. Dread spreads through him, and he wonders whether he will lose her before he's even fully had the chance to be with her.  
Perhaps she reads some of it in his face, for she says, "Well, we've had worse. Black tie?"  
"Yes." Relief floods him and he smiles gratefully. As he's about to say more, Tariq bursts in.  
"You both need to see this."

They follow him out, and he points at a TV screen where CNN is running. A breathless reporter stands in front of a burning building.  
"Twenty minutes ago terror once again visited the US. A bomb exploded in the hall where one of the candidates for the presidential nominee of the Republican party was addressing a group of students. Jeff Wilmore was midway through his speech when the smell of burning plastic alerted security inside the hall that something was amiss. They found a sports bag packed with a home made explosive device, and was in the process of clearing the hall when it exploded."  
As he prattles on, Harry watches the footage behind him carefully. Off to one side the politician can be seen, being treated by an ambulance crew. He doesn't appear to be badly injured.  
The reporter continues, "Wilmore is a former Marine and is running on a platform of building a safer America."  
Ruth glances at Harry, and sees his eyes narrow as he watches the images. Surprise and shock flickers momentarily across his face, but when she looks back at the screen she sees nothing that could have caused it.  
"That'll ramp up Wilmore's popularity," Calum comments out of the blue.  
They all look at him.  
"He was running in third place in the opinion polls before this. His message seemed somewhat outdated in a post Bin Laden world."  
Dimitri lifts an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting Wilmore planned this?"  
Calum shrugs. "Far be it from me to suggest that an American politician would resort to underhanded methods to further his career."  
"Well said," Harry remarks, and Dimitri and Ruth share an amused glance. Some things, it seems, will never change where Harry is concerned.

A phone rings in the background and Ruth moves to pick it up. She returns moments later, a grave expression on her face. Harry frowns, concerned. He knows that expression of his beloved analyst, and it usually means that calamity is about to strike.  
"What?" he asks when she doesn't speak immediately.  
"…That was Grosvenor Square. The Americans have evidence of British involvement in the bombing." She pauses, then adds grimly, "More specifically, involvement from MI5."

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 4

- 0 –

_The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks;  
They are all fire and every one doth shine;  
But there's but one in all doth hold his place.  
So in the world, 'tis furnish'd well with men,  
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;  
Yet in the number I do know but one  
That unassailable holds on his rank,  
Unshaked of motion; and that I am he._

**Julius Caesar, Act III. Scene I.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_London, the Grid_

Long seconds of silence pass as everyone tries to make sense of Ruth's words.  
"The Americans think MI5 is somehow involved in this bombing?" Erin asks, jabbing a manicured nail at the TV.  
"Yes," Ruth confirms.  
Harry looks at Erin. Erin looks at Harry. Harry lifts an eyebrow.  
"_I_ didn't order it!" Erin snaps, offended, as Tariq and Dimitri stifle smirks.  
Ruth continues, "A high level CIA delegation is flying in tomorrow and they want to meet with you," she says, looking at Harry, who smiles mirthlessly.  
But Ruth isn't finished. "The delegation will include Jim Coaver."  
Unease flickers across Harry's face, but only Ruth, who is watching him closely, notices. A pregnant silence descends on the Grid, only broken by the background sounds of people scurrying around and phones ringing.  
Erin looks between Ruth and Harry. "What's going on?"  
Harry sighs. "Jim Coaver and I worked together in West Berlin in the eighties. Ilya Gavrik was, at that time, the senior KGB officer in East Berlin. There's a lot of history there."  
Dimitri frowns. "And now we're cosying up to the Russians. The Americans can't be happy about that."  
Harry takes a breath. "I suppose we'll find out tomorrow. Until then, we have the security of tonight's function to worry about. Erin?"  
As Erin runs through the security measures and hands out tasks, Harry's mind wanders back to what he saw on the television earlier. Or rather, _who_ he saw. It is a face that has been seared into his memory since that day that everything went wrong in Berlin. And it puts a whole different perspective on what is happening now.

- 0 –

_Same day, evening  
Whitehall, cocktail function_

The car draws up in front of the door and Harry steps out, resplendent in his tuxedo. Ruth watches appreciatively as he walks round and opens her door for her. She is nervous about tonight, and not only because Harry is about to be reunited with Elena Gavrik. She is here with Harry, in a social context, and she knows that people will draw certain conclusions because of it. Not necessarily the wrong ones, not after her visit to Harry's house a week ago, but things are not quite as black and white as that. She sighs; the fact that Harry has been distracted during the drive over doesn't exactly help settle her nerves. The man in question opens her door and holds out his hand, and she places her smaller one in it. When his fingers curl around hers and squeezes, she looks up into his face. He smiles at her, somewhat apologetically but lovingly, and helps her out. He steps close to her side and bends his head to her ear. "Thank you, Ruth. For coming. I'm sorry that it's under such complicated circumstances."  
His lips brush the shell of her ear lightly as his hand settles in the small of her back, and she feels some of the tension leave her. She smiles at him, suddenly overwhelmed by her love for him.  
"Come home with me afterwards?" she asks, surprising them both with her boldness. She almost wants to take it back, until she looks into his eyes and sees the desire burning deep in their depths.  
"Yes," he says simply, his voice low, and it goes straight to her core.  
She nods, relieved. "To work then," she says determinedly, and leads the way inside. Harry follows, his heart filled with gratitude. She could have made this evening quite difficult, but she seems determined to play her part without complaint.  
They hand in their coats, and Ruth notices Harry's eyes linger on her figure even though she is demurely dressed; it does wonders for her self-confidence. As they enter the main function hall she stops and surveys the scene before them.  
"Very glamorous," she comments, somewhat apprehensively.  
Harry steps up next to her until their shoulders touch. "Yes," he says as his hand brushes hers, and deadpans, "we'll fit right in."  
The comment amuses her, and for a moment she forgets about all her concerns. When she looks at him, his eyes are soft and understanding, and then he offers her his arm. Ruth takes a deep breath and places her hand in the crook of his elbow, and they step inside.

Almost immediately Harry tilts his head towards her and murmurs, "Eleven o'clock, twenty yards away. The woman with the red hair."  
He doesn't have to say the name for Ruth to know who the woman is – Elena Gavrik. She is beautiful, graceful, poised, and Ruth is unnerved. She's not quite sure how to handle this. She drops her hand from Harry's arm almost reflexively, and he looks at her, puzzled.  
"Ruth-"  
"What do you need me to do?"  
He hesitates, uncertain whether to push her, but in the end lets it go. This is hardly the place for personal conversations. "If you can get Elena away from her husband, tell her to meet me, in twenty minutes' time, in the service corridor."  
Ruth swallows, nods. Fights down the urge to take Harry's hand and drag him out of here. This is their life; this is what they do, who they are. Harry snags two champagne glasses from a passing waiter and hands her one. "Shall we?"

They make their way through the throngs of people, stopping here and there to greet someone they know. Or at least, that Harry knows. These are the circles he moves in, these are the people he rubs shoulders with on a regular basis, Ruth realises with trepidation. He is at home here, whilst she… is very much at sea. Harry stays close to her, as though he senses what is going through her mind, his hand resting comfortingly in the small of her back. But then she catches his eye and notices the veiled possessiveness in his gaze, and she experiences a flash of revelation; he is staking his claim. He is here with _her_, and he wants everyone to know it. He is proud to be here with her. The knowledge fills her with warmth, and she slides her hand into the crook of his arm again, catching him by surprise. He looks down at her, an unspoken question in his gaze, and she smiles. "Let's go meet the guests of honour."  
Harry nods, relieved, wondering at the change in her demeanour and the possible reason behind it. But he has no time to ask, as she steers them towards the Gavriks unerringly. Harry takes a breath and tries not to think about how much rides on this reunion.

Elena stands next to her husband, self-possessed and beautiful. His eyes trail over her face – the years have been kind to her, and the few lines that have appeared since he last saw her have been skilfully hidden by make-up. This is the face that stirred such desire in him once, and he tries to evaluate his reaction to her now, after so many years, honestly. He feels a stirring of old familiarity, a flash of nostalgia. He could have loved this woman, given more time and under different circumstances. But not now, not after all that has happened, not since Ruth has walked into his life. Now all he feels is a sense of regret. He glances at Ruth, feels a rush of love for her. Here is a woman he can fully trust, who has seen the worst and best of him and is still here, by his side. He is filled with a sense of wonderment that he has found this in the midst of a life covered in blood, death and betrayal, and he fervently hopes that the reappearance of the Gavriks will not ruin it.

Ilya Gavrik stands next to his beautiful wife proudly, tall and straight. He is an impressive man, with a quiet self-assurance that leaves the impression that he is nobody's fool. He saw them the moment they came through the door, Harry knows, and his eyes has seldom left them since. Once a spook, always a spook, he thinks wryly; not even the cushy life of a Russian politician seems to have blunted the other man's instincts. He is aware of Elena's gaze sweeping over him, and he wonders what she sees. He doubts she will think that time has been kind to him as well. Her gaze shifts to Ruth, evaluating, wondering, calculating the substance of their relationship. And suddenly he is afraid. He suppresses it, focusses on Ilya, whose face breaks into a smile that does not quite reach his eyes.  
"Old friends reunited," he comments, holding out his hand. "Hello, Harry."  
"'Friends' might be overstating it, Ilya," Harry says as he shakes the Russian's hand.  
Ilya's smile widens. "Old adversaries, then. You remember my wife, Elena?"  
Harry nods, keeps his face expressionless. "How do you do? This is Ruth."  
The two women greet each other warily, uneasily, and Harry wonders what is going through their minds. He catches Ilya's eye, and the Russian lifts his glass. "I think this calls for a toast. What shall we drink to?"  
"To old enemies," Harry says, lifting his own glass, unable to resist the dig.  
"And to new friendships," Ilya responds, undeterred by Harry's stroppiness.

They chat amicably for a while, before Elena announces out of the blue, "I need to go to the Ladies' Room," and turns to Ruth. "Would you mind showing me where it is?"  
Ruth covers her surprise well, but all the same Harry suspects they have all noticed.  
"Of course." She touches Harry's arm softly, "Excuse me."  
He nods, his mouth suddenly dry on her behalf.  
Ruth leads the way to the rest rooms with some trepidation. She is wary of Elena Gavrik, but it is a chance to impart Harry's message to the other woman. At the door she half-turns to Elena, "Through here," she indicates, as her eyes travel beyond to the two men they left behind. Both are looking after them, but they seem to be conversing in low tones. Ruth wonders what they have to say to each other. Are they talking about the weather? Comparing their women? Arguing which has the bigger-? She forcibly stops that train of thought, uncomfortably aware that she could just ask Elena for the answer.  
"Harry wants a private word," she says as Elena moves past her. "Twenty minutes, the service corridor. It's the door to the right."  
A flicker of surprise crosses Elena's face. She regards Ruth curiously, then asks bluntly, "He's sleeping with you, isn't he?"  
Ruth stares at her, momentarily unnerved, but it is swiftly replaced by anger. Before she can respond, Elena adds casually, "He'll never change. Only he would have the audacity to use his latest lover to set up an assignation with a former. We're all just assets to him, in the end."  
She disappears through the door, leaving Ruth to ponder her words.

- 0 –

_Twenty minutes later_

Ruth is still thinking about Elena's words as she watches from across the room as first Harry and then Elena slip away. Her stomach churns, and she is acutely aware of every second that passes whilst Harry and his former lover are closeted together, away from prying eyes. The Home Secretary appears at her elbow, providing a not-so-welcome distraction.  
"Good evening, Ruth. May I call you Ruth?"  
If he notices her distraction he doesn't mention it.  
"Of course, Home Secretary. Good evening."  
"I've had a chance to peruse the dossier Harry prepared on you. It makes for very impressive reading." He studies her with frank interest, and she feels her cheeks warm.  
"Thank you," she murmurs, unsure how else to respond, wondering where he is going with this.  
She doesn't have to wonder for long, as he comes to the point straightaway. "I'm always on the lookout for talented people to join my staff. How would you like to come and work for me?"  
"…I'm sorry?" she blurts, caught completely off-guard.  
Towers laughs and leans in. "I'm offering you a job, Ruth," he repeats. "Intelligence Advisor. I think you'd be perfect. Harry has hidden you away in that dungeon of his for long enough. I think you deserve a promotion. So come work for me."  
She just stares at him, too stunned to respond.  
The Home Secretary watches her for a moment. "Think about it," he says eventually, as his attention is caught by Ilya Gavrik. "Excuse me."  
As he moves away Harry and Elena emerges, and she sees Harry touch the other woman's back briefly.

- 0 –

_Same time  
The Kremlin, Russia_

The Russian waits patiently in the corridor. He is used to it – if you're the lackey of a prominent figure you usually are. Idly he wonders what they are debating inside. He is, of course, aware that Minister Gavrik is currently in Britain to negotiate a security agreement, so perhaps it has something to do with that. Unfortunately his own news will not be good, and he knows his boss will not be pleased. The thought causes him unease – one displeases Mikhail Levrov, a man that has been a prominent figure in the KGB, at your peril. The great doors swing open and the man himself steps out, and just for a moment the Russian glimpses President Putin in the room behind him before Levrov closes the doors.  
"What the fuck happened in Texas?" he demands immediately.  
The Russian looks into those cold eyes and steels himself. "The plastic casing that held the timing mechanism melted, and the smell alerted the Security. They had time to clear the hall and minimise casualties. The Chechens assure me they can correct the problem," he adds quickly, subtly trying to lay the blame elsewhere.  
Levrov stares at him without expression. "Good. We can't afford similar mistakes in London."  
He turns back to the doors before adding, "And be assured that I will hold you accountable, not the Chechens. Now go and do your job."  
The Russian remains standing in the corridor long after Levrov has disappeared back into the room, his legs weak.

- 0 -

_London  
After the function_

As soon as they get into the car, Harry looks at her. "That went as well as can be expected," he comments, relief that it is over seeping through.  
"Did it?" she says, and there is something in her voice that puts him on his guard.  
He tilts his head to see her face more clearly, and tries again. "Yes. Your help was invaluable tonight."  
She huffs, a tiny laugh of derision, and it goes straight to his heart.  
"What?"  
"Elena says we are all just assets to you. I wasn't sure what she meant at first, but after tonight I'm beginning to understand."  
Harry stares at her, appalled. "You don't truly believe that, do you?"  
She doesn't respond, but that is an answer in itself.  
"Ruth," he says desperately, "Elena doesn't know me-"  
She jerks her head round. "And I do?! Harry, you asked me to help set up a few private moments for you with your former lover!"  
He blinks, and a long silence follows as her words hit home. When he speaks again, she hears the self-reproach in every word. "It never occurred to me," he admits, once again reminded how ill equipped he is for emotional entanglement. Then, determinedly, he reaches for her hand. "But you already know I'm terrible at this. I proposed to you at a funeral, remember?"  
She laughs, and nods slowly. "That's true, you are rather terrible at this."  
He lets out a slow breath and continues, "You _do_ know me, Ruth. You're the only one that does. And that comforts me. That's why I asked you along tonight – not to help me meet with a former lover, but to help me meet with a potential asset."  
They look at each other for a long time, wordlessly tightening the bond between them, until Ruth asks, "Have you told me everything that happened in Berlin?"  
And when he drops his gaze, she knows.

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 5

- 0 –

_Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world  
Like a Colossus; and we petty men  
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about  
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.  
Men at some time are masters of their fates:  
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,  
But in ourselves, that we are underlings._

**Julius Caesar, Act I. Scene II.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_Late night  
London, Ruth's house_

Her question hangs in the air between them, and her face tells him that she already knows the answer. For a moment he is so, so tempted to tell her everything, to unburden himself. An image of a small boy in a car, a bomb ticking away underneath, flashes before his mind's eye. But he has kept these secrets for more than thirty years, and he needs to do so still, especially now.  
"No, I haven't told you everything," he says, and the weary resignation that flits across her face stabs at him.  
"I can't, Ruth," he implores, and she smiles cynically and turns away from him.  
"Not because I don't trust you." He is almost begging now. "I trust you implicitly. But there are bigger things at play here – bigger than you and me. It's better that you are kept out of it-"  
She turns on him, eyes flashing angrily. "Stop bloody protecting me!"  
He flinches, her words as good as a physical slap, and pulls back until he is pressed against the door. Confusion radiates from him, and she has another revelation – it's the only way he knows to prove his worth to her.  
"I can't," he says miserably, "I don't know how."  
She just watches him for a long time before she exhales slowly. "I know," she concedes, all the anger gone from her. She reaches for him, squeezes his arm in mute apology.  
"Come inside, Harry."  
Once she has locked the door behind them, she takes his hand and leads him to her bedroom, where she undresses him slowly and with relish. He lets her, understanding that this is her way of showing him that she loves him, secrets and all, and the realisation moves him deeply. And when they tumble onto the bed and begin to move together, he sees his own unbridled joy reflected back from her eyes, and he swears that he will do everything in his power to protect what they have.

- 0 –

_Next day  
CIA Headquarters in London, Grosvenor Square_

Harry is met in the lobby by a junior officer, and as the man leads him deeper into the building he gets a tickling feeling in his gut, as though he is being led into the lion's den. He wonders what has become of Alton Beecher – he hasn't seen him since the whole Albany fiasco. His thoughts turn to Jim Coaver, and he ponders what sort of reception he should expect from his former partner. How much do the Americans know about Britain's attempts to move closer to Russia? Harry suspects that American tentacles reach deep into some of the British state departments, especially those of Defence and Foreign Affairs. Jim, he knows, will understand that the Intelligence Services seldom has input into these sorts of decisions, but all the same he expects somewhat of a frosty reception. He should probably be more concerned about the supposed MI5 link to the bombing, but he guesses that it is tenuous at best, and probably only a smokescreen for something else, like the opportunity to express their dismay over their closest ally's overtures to Russia. Harry sighs; some days he really hates politicians.

His escort shows him into a small conference room, and there are three men already inside. He immediately recognises Jim, and receives a warm smile from him. The man seated at the head of the table he recognises as the Deputy Director responsible for Europe, a man he's had many dealings with in the past. He does not look best pleased. The third man is leaning against the windowsill, and the light behind him makes it difficult to distinguish his features, so that it takes Harry a few seconds to place him. When he does, the shock reverberates through him, and it is only his years of training and experience that prevents him from showing any reaction.  
Instead he focuses on the man he once regarded as a friend. "Hello, Jim."  
"Hal, you old bastard," Coaver greets jovially. "How have you been?"  
Harry holds out his hand but Coaver ignores it and instead draws him into a bear-hug.  
"None of that famous English reserve now, old friend. You're on American soil."  
Harry laughs self-consciously and submits to the hug briefly, before turning to the man at the table.  
"Frank."  
"Harry."  
It sounds more like 'Hairy', and Harry remembers once again how much he dislikes the man.  
"To what do I owe the du-, the delightful pleasure of your company?" he enquires, and Jim stifles a smirk behind Frank's back.  
"I'm here as a courtesy. The CIA has some serious concerns about the conduct of your organisation."

Harry's hackles rise. He cannot stand the smug, superior attitude of the man. "It is not the CIA's concern what Britain's Intelligence Services does-"  
"It is very much our concern! Britain is our closest ally-"  
"A sovereign ally, last time I checked-"  
"-and if you screw up it reflects badly on us!" Frank ended, his voice rising.  
Harry stares at him, and then he laughs. "That's pretty bloody rich, coming from you lot."  
Frank's face reddens and he glowers at the pompous Englishman.  
Harry, in turn, glances at the man leaning against the windowsill. "You haven't introduced your colleague, Frank."  
"His name is none of your concern," Frank states huffily.  
Harry inhales incredulously, and after a moment he stands. "Then we're done. Pity you came all the way across the pond for nothing. It's good to see you, Jim."  
He reaches the door before Frank finds his voice. "We are NOT done! Sit the fuck down, Pearce."  
Harry turns slowly, a dangerous light in his eyes. "Excuse me?" he says, and the room goes very still.  
Jim glances uncomfortably between the two men. He is perhaps the only one that realises how close Harry is to the edge at that moment. "At least hear us out, Harry," he intercedes, and Harry turns to him.  
"I will not discuss intelligence in the presence of someone I don't know, Jim. Let's at least pretend that we are all professionals, shall we?"  
At that the man at the window finally stirs. He pushes upright and steps forward. "He's right, fellas. Stanley Hayes," he introduces himself, "Director of Deep Cover Operations."  
Harry studies the other man carefully, before he moves back to the table. He is perturbed that he's never heard the name before, and secretly resolves to look into it.

"All right then. Let's talk. What are your concerns?"  
Frank fixes Harry with a disapproving look. "You know about the attempt on the life of one of our politicians, Jeff Wilmore?"  
Harry nods, watching Hayes' reactions from the corner of his eye.  
"That's right," Frank says accusingly. "You know everything about it, pal. You ordered it."  
Harry frowns. "Do you mean 'you' in the MI5 sense or-"  
"I mean you personally, Harry."  
There is a long silence, during which Harry can sense the anticipation from the Deep Cover Director, and he suspects that the information has come from him. "Well, this is awkward," he says at length, looking at them solemnly.  
Frank leans forward, shocked. They all expected a vehement denial, but now it seems they are about to get a confession.  
Harry sighs, and continues, "It's so hard to find good help these days, don't you agree? It's the fiasco with my attempt on Reagan's life all over again. At least in Kennedy's time one could still get a dependable assassin on the cheap."  
Jim's laughter breaks the befuddled pause that follows Harry's words, but he quickly swallows it when he looks into the Englishman's angry eyes.  
"If I wanted some third rate American politician dead," Harry says icily, "he would be dead. You've wasted enough of my time."  
He turns to Jim. "You should keep better company."  
With that he walks out the door without a backward glance.

They watch him leave with varying degrees of satisfaction.  
"Told you it was ridiculous," Jim states, looking between the other two.  
"You believe him?" Frank asks, somewhat unwilling to let go of his pursuit of Harry Pearce.  
"Oh yeah," Jim says confidently. "I worked with this man for years. And he's right; if he wanted Wilmore dead, believe me, he would be dead."

- 0 –

Harry turns the matter over in his mind as he is driven back to Thames House. He is convinced that this is the doing of Hayes, and that puts a whole different angle on things. There is a hidden agenda that he is not aware of, and that puts him at a distinct disadvantage. He is already mistrusted by his superiors, and if the Americans keep pushing these allegations he has no doubt that he will be back on suspension before he can blink. His instincts tell him that this is somehow linked to the Russian agreement, but for the life of him he can't figure out how. It all depends on where Hayes' loyalties lie, and Harry has reason to doubt that it is with the US. What he needs is more information on the mysterious Stanley Hayes.

- 0 –

_Same time  
Grozny, Chechnya_

A young man walks into the sitting room, where the Russian is sprawled on the sofa. "We're ready, sir," he announces.  
The Russian opens one eye. "You've sorted out the problems we experienced in Texas?"  
"Yes."  
"Good. Get your men ready for departure."  
As the young man leaves, the Russian sits for a moment, once again contemplating the message he received from his agent.  
_Harry Pearce has made contact. I think he's going to once again attempt to turn me._  
He smiles. Since the American has made no progress in hobbling Pearce, this is good news. It means the man will be walking right into their trap.

- 0 –

_The Grid, London_

As soon as he steps onto the Grid, Harry nods at Ruth, and she follows him to his office.  
"How did it go?"  
Harry drops into his chair. "They're trying to frame me for the bombing," he says flatly.  
Ruth takes a moment to process the statement. "You personally?" she clarifies.  
"Yes."  
She is stunned. "To what end?"  
He rubs his forehead. "I don't know, but I suspect it is somehow linked to the Russian agreement."  
She sits down, and they watch each other for a few seconds. She is concerned for him, and it warms him.  
"And Jim Coaver is part of this?"  
Harry thinks about it. "I think not. I think he was there because he knows me well, to gauge my reaction."  
Ruth lets out a breath, and points out, "That means they don't have solid evidence against you."  
Harry nods, and leans forward. "Ruth."  
She knows that tone of voice; he is about to ask her to do something not entirely legal.  
"I need you to look into someone for me, very quietly. His name is Stanley Hayes, and he is the Director of Deep Cover Operations at the CIA."  
Ruth frowns. "I've never heard of him."  
"Me neither," Harry says meaningfully, "which is why he interests me. Could be a false name."  
"I'll get his picture from Immigration," she says and stands.  
Harry stands too and moves close. He briefly touches the back of her hand. "Be careful. No traces. I have an uncomfortable feeling about this man."  
She smiles slightly, looking into his eyes. "You're doing it again," she chides gently.  
"What?"  
"Protecting me."  
He brushes her hand again. "Mm. It's what people do," he murmurs before moving away.  
Her smile broadens and she leaves the office, ridiculously happy, pondering how those words have become their own personal code for the others they are both somehow unable to say.

Harry watches her go, mindful of the fact that he has a meeting with Elena Gavrik tonight, a meeting which he hasn't told Ruth about. The old familiar feeling of guilt tightens his chest, and he sighs heavily. He sticks his head round the door and calls for Erin.  
"What happened with the Americans?" she asks as soon as she steps into his office. She is obviously still annoyed that he didn't take her with him.  
"They claim to have evidence that MI5 ordered the attack. Since we know for a fact that this is not true, we need to establish why they would try to distract us. Go through everything we have; see if there have been whispers of an attack on London."  
Erin frowns. "Why would the Americans be involved in an attack on London?"  
Harry shrugs. "Well, we are about to enter into a security deal with one of their biggest enemies, historically speaking. So pay particular attention to the Chechen terrorist groups."  
"The Chechens? Why?"  
"We have the Russians in town. I'm sure they present an awfully tempting target for Chechen terrorists. And if you're the CIA and you want something done without getting your own hands dirty, who better?"

- 0 –

_Same day, evening  
Royal Opera Theatre, London_

Elena sits through the performance of _La Bohème_, and though it is a high quality production, she has trouble focussing. Her mind is occupied with the meeting which is to follow – she has been invited to meet soprano Anna Netrebko afterwards. It is a smokescreen to meet with Harry, without her minders present. She will be escorted into the dressing room of the soprano whilst her security stays outside, but it will be Harry waiting inside instead of the star. There is a familiarity to the whole thing; it is the same ploy he used to meet with her in Berlin. Warmth spreads through her abdomen, and she wonders whether tonight's meeting will end the same way the others invariably did – with them having sex on the nearest available surface. She still remembers vividly the first time it happened – her surprise at the passion burning under his reserved English exterior, and the delicious illicitness of it as he had lifted her onto the dresser and pounded into her. It was a heady combination, and the force of her orgasm on that first occasion is a fond memory. She shifts in her seat, suddenly impatient. This time, though, she suspects that _she_ will have to seduce _him_. After seeing the way he looks at the woman that accompanied him the other night, she knows it won't be easy. The people around her stand and begin to applaud, and she realises that the performance has ended. She makes her way to the foyer, from where she will be escorted to her meeting.

- 0 –

The door opens and Elena is ushered in. The attendant swiftly closes it behind her, and when she looks up, Harry is sitting in an armchair across the room. It is an incongruous sight, seeing him surrounded by the knick-knacks of a female stage performer. Despite herself, she feels desire ignite in her blood.  
"Just like old times," she says throatily, watching him.  
Harry looks around him, and when his eyes sweep across the lighted mirror he flashes back to another time, another place.  
_He bends Elena over the dresser and thrusts into her from behind, watching every shift in her lust-drugged expression in the mirror. Her nipples stand to attention and it spurs him on, makes his blood burn._

But just as swiftly as the image came, it recedes again, and is replaced with another, more cherished memory – that of a pair of indescribably blue eyes, watching him with endless adoration as he sheaths himself in her heat.  
"Not quite the same," he responds as his gaze settles back on the Russian, and her eyes narrow.  
"You betrayed me, Elena," he states flatly, and she stops breathing. For possibly the first time in their acquaintance, he has her at a disadvantage, and he presses it home mercilessly.  
"Sit down. Let's talk."

- 0 –

_Same time  
Thames House Interrogation room_

Erin has decided that the direct approach is the best option under the circumstances, and has unceremoniously hauled in a number of Chechen émigrés. The first four she and Dimitri interviewed have produced nothing, so it is with little hope that she settles across the table from the fifth. He is a nervous looking young man, and she guesses that he is here illegally.  
Dispensing with any niceties, she says curtly, "How would you like to go back to Chechnya?"  
The young man begins to sweat, and it takes only a few minutes and a couple more threats before he cracks.  
"I heard something from my brother. He is looking for a way to get into England, and he has been offered a chance."  
He swallows, and looks between the two spooks desperately. "If I help you, will you spare my brother?"  
Erin senses that this is not the time to stick to procedure, so ignoring the fact that she does not have the authorisation to make such a deal, she simply says, "Yes."  
The man nods, and takes a deep breath. "There is an attack planned on London." He pauses, and looks at Erin oddly. "With the help of the CIA."

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 6

- 0 –

_O Conspiracy,  
Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,  
When evils are most free? O, then, by day  
Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough  
To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, Conspiracy;  
Hide it in smiles and affability;  
For if thou path, thy native semblance on,  
Not Erebus itself were dim enough  
To hide thee from prevention._

**Julius Caesar, Act II. Scene I.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_Two hours later  
Marriott Hotel near Grosvenor Square, London_

Jim stretches, and announces, "I'm going for a walk."  
For the last hour he has been cloistered in a private dining room with his two travelling companions, and he desperately needs some fresh air.  
Hayes studies him suspiciously. "Stay away from Harry Pearce," he warns. "I don't want you to have any contact with him."  
Jim bristles. "For God's sake, Stan. Harry is not involved in this shit. I told you so from the start, and you have shown me nothing to change my mind. The man is a friend, and I'll be damned if I'll be told who I can and cannot see by you."  
He makes for the door, and as Hayes moves to intercept him, Frank's voice stops him. "Let him go, Stan."  
He waits until the door closes behind Jim before he speaks again. "Jim is right; you have given us nothing convincing to implicate Pearce in the bombing. So you either provide me with such proof right now, or you tell me what the fuck you're really playing at."

- 0 –

As Jim exits the hotel, he looks up to see Harry leaning against a car across the road. Harry gives him a look and gets into the car without a word. Jim crosses the road and gets in next to him. They drive in complete silence until Harry swings the car into a large, empty underground car park. He drives to the lowest level and stops in the centre of the floor. Jim surveys the large empty space around them and the thick concrete walls, and understands.  
"You think I'm wired?" he asks wearily, perturbed by the suppressed anger he can sense in the Englishman.  
"Are you?" Harry asks shortly.  
"Jesus, Hal! No. You want to strip-search me?" Jim snaps, annoyed. "We used to trust each other, remember?"  
Harry's deadly gaze never leaves his face. "Did we, Jim? Or were we merely two men with too many shared secrets?"  
Jim snorts. "That's always been your problem. You never know who to trust. Like with Elena."  
Harry's anger flares. "I told you something was not right, but you called me paranoid. You all wanted it to be true, until it blew up in our faces. Then you were quick to blame me. So yes, Jim, I wonder why I don't trust you right now."  
The tension in the air is almost palpable as the two men stare at each other, until Jim sighs. "It was a mess, Harry. We lost our entire network because of Elena Gavrik."  
Harry's jaw clenches and his gaze turns to the empty spaces around them. "You think so? You think we lost the network because of my approach to Elena?"  
Jim frowns. "Don't start this again. It's the only way it could have happened."  
Harry smiles mirthlessly. "Of course. It can only be the incompetent Pom's fault. There can't possibly have been a leak from your side."  
"Look, Hal," Jim says wearily, "none of us like to admit that we were taken for a ride by an asset, but it happens to the best of us. Including you."  
Harry is silent for long seconds, and then he says, "Yes, it does, and it has, but not on that occasion. I knew from the start that Elena was KGB."

- 0 –

_Grozny, Chechnya_

The Russian watches as the last of the cargo is carefully loaded into the truck. When it is done and the truck closed up, he steps towards the cabin. It is going to be a slow, careful ride to the airport, but he knows that the road is good. He has made sure of that. He turns to the fat Chechen that will remain behind. "Make sure that you remove all traces of our presence from the house, then get out of the country."  
The fat man nods, and the Russian heaves himself into the cab.  
"Let's go."  
The truck begins to move slowly, and the Russian's stomach clenches with every bump and jerk. He is thankful that he will not be on the plane to London.

- 0 –

_London, Underground car park_

Jim is speechless. "You _knew_? For fuck's sake, Hal-"  
Harry cuts off his tirade. "Yes. So, you see, I wasn't 'thinking with my dick' as you so crassly put it, and I certainly did not lead the Russians to our entire network-"  
"You can't know that."  
Harry takes a deep breath. "Yes, I can. Use your head. I didn't even _know_ about some of the CIA assets, and yet they were all rolled up." He turns to the American and continues, with calm emphasis, "It wasn't me, Jim."  
It is obvious that Jim is struggling to compute the implications of Harry's statement. Harry knows how he feels; it is the worst feeling in the world to realise that there is a traitor among one's colleagues. It is something that Harry, unfortunately, is all too familiar with.  
"Then how," Jim mumbles, still unwilling to go to the obvious conclusion.  
Harry spells it out for him. "Someone in the Berlin CIA office was a double agent."

- 0 –

_Grozny, Chechnya_

They reach the airport without incident. The driver pulls up to the cargo hangars and the Russian jumps out as a customs official materialises out of the dark. They exchange brief greetings, and the Russian hands over an envelope with documentation.  
"The manifests and diplomatic stamps are all there. Our contact will receive it on the other side, and will have the necessary paperwork. We have five men that will accompany the cargo – here are the passports."  
Finally he hands over a smaller, fatter envelope. "Your payment."  
The official grunts and reaches for it, but the Russian holds onto it for a beat. The man looks at him curiously.  
"If you fail me," the Russian states matter-of-factly, "you will never get a chance to spend it."

- 0 –

_London, Underground car park_

"That is a damn serious accusation, Harry." Jim sounds tired and defeated, and Harry knows that the American realises on some level that it is the only viable explanation.  
"More serious than accusing an ally of trying to assassinate one of your deluded right wing politicians?"  
Jim concedes the point with a flap of the hand. "Come on, you know I never believed it. Stan Hayes is on a wild goose chase with this one."  
Harry absorbs the indirect confirmation that Hayes is behind it all. "What is Hayes' connection to Jeff Wilmore?" he asks. And watches Jim's reaction closely.  
Jim is perplexed. "To Wilmore? None that I know of. What makes you ask that?"  
"He was there, with Wilmore, that night of the bombing. I saw him in the background on the news coverage."  
Harry can tell that Jim is perturbed by this information, but the American rallies and says dismissively, "He was probably there to investigate."  
"Ah, you mean to find the evidence to blame me for it."  
Jim winces slightly. "Yeah, it's obviously a frame-up, and I assume it is a clumsy attempt to put a spanner in the works of your pending agreement with the Russians."  
"But think about it, Jim. How would accusing me of the bombing stop the agreement in any way?"  
"Well, what then?"  
"What it does do, is distract me from other possible security threats. Such as the information I've just received that the CIA is helping a group of Chechen terrorists to plan an attack on London." Harry pauses. "Everything that is happening is designed to drive a wedge between MI5 and the CIA, and by extension Britain and the US."  
Jim shakes his head. "That's crazy. For what purpose?"  
Harry smiles cynically. "So that both our countries will have to look for other partners. And lo, who shall appear on the horizon but the suddenly benevolent Russian bear – with his oil, his vast economic potential and his connections in the trouble spots of our little planet?"

Jim laughs. He doesn't want to believe it, but there's a horrid logic to it.  
"But why target you specifically, Harry? You think you're the only one who can figure this out and blow the whole thing sky-high?"  
Harry doesn't miss the bitter note underlying Jim's words. "No, nothing so flattering. I suspect it's simply a case of me being there at the start of it all, and having seen more than I should have. In Berlin."  
Jim is silent, and then offers his last ray of hope that it isn't true. "This whole scenario depends on whether I believe that you really knew Elena Gavrik was a KGB agent before you approached her. If it's true, why the hell did you go ahead with the attempted recruitment?"  
"A diversion," Harry says, a hint of impatience evident at Jim's inability to see it for himself.  
Jim ignores it and looks at Harry challengingly. "Tell me how you knew she was KGB, Hal."  
Harry looks back steadily. "I knew, Jim, because my real Russian asset told me."  
Jim is stunned. "You had another asset?"  
"Yes."  
"Who?"  
But Harry shakes his head. "I've kept this secret for more than thirty years, and I'm going to keep it until I'm sure that your double agent is no longer a threat."  
"Wait a minute," Jim says incredulously, "you still have the asset?"  
"Yes."  
"But… We haven't had any proper information on Russia for the last ten years! Where the hell has your source been all this time?"  
Harry smiles mysteriously. "Getting into position."

- 0 –

In the skies above Europe, a 747 speeds steadily towards London. In its hold, the crates with the Russian diplomatic seal are snugly packed between the other cargo. And in the cabin, the five young Chechens sit quietly, each lost in his own thoughts. They are thankful that it is a smooth flight.

- 0 –

_One hour later  
London, Harry's house_

When he enters, she is waiting for him, and even though he is drained, his mood lifts. But then he gets a good look at her face.  
"You met with Elena tonight," Ruth says without preamble, and to her credit she manages not to sound accusatory.  
Harry stops in the doorway and watches her, not in the least surprised that she somehow found out. She looks so right here in his house, sitting in his favourite armchair, and he marvels once again at the miracle of it.  
"Yes," he eventually responds, stepping closer. "It was work. I can't very well recruit her without having contact with her."  
As he nears her something flashes across her face, and she rises stiffly. They stand, almost touching, but she refuses to look at him.  
"Work. Of course."  
There is a note of devastation in her voice that alarms him immeasurably. "Yes. Ruth, what-"  
"You stink of her perfume, Harry," she almost chokes out, and brushes past him, heading for the door.

He never knew that a man's heart can break in a fraction of a second, but his shatters as she walks away from him, and he remembers what she told him a few nights ago.  
"_Towers offered me a job," she says casually, and is secretly pleased by the alarmed look on his face._  
"_What did you say?" he asks, striving to sound indifferent and failing miserably._  
"_Nothing. He told me to think about it."_  
"_And are you? Thinking about it?" he persists, and she relents._  
"_No. Can you really picture me working for a politician? Besides, it would be temporary – the next Home Secretary will bring in his own personnel and I'd be out of a job."  
Harry watches her thoughtfully, reassured by the answer. "It would be a great opportunity, though. Lots of exposure. With that on your CV you'd have no trouble getting another position."  
Ruth frowns. "Are you trying to talk me into taking the job?"  
He smiles and touches her cheek. "No. But I don't want to stand in your way either."_  
"_You're not," she says firmly, then adds as an afterthought, "Towers is a _politician_."  
Harry laughs. "So he is."_

He makes his decision. He moves swiftly and grabs her arm. She jerks, surprised by the sudden contact, but stops nonetheless.  
"Take the job Towers offered you," he says, and watches as her heart shatters too. It almost kills him.  
"Come with me," he commands, and leads her to the bathroom at a brisk pace. He bundles her into the shower, clothes and all, before she fully realises what is happening, and steps in after her, his bulk blocking any escape. He opens the taps as far as they can go, and she squeals as the powerful jet of cold water hits her on the back.  
"Harry! What the hell-"  
"It's not Elena's perfume."  
"…What?"  
"It's Anna Netrebko's. We met in her dressing room, and the whole place is permeated with it."  
She stares at him. "And you had to get me in here to tell me this?"  
He looks grave. "No."  
His expression makes the penny drop for her. She drops her voice. "You think your house is bugged?"  
"Maybe." After a moment he amends his answer. "Probably."  
Her eyes widen. "By whom?"  
"Any number of people. Doesn't really matter. Listen, please."  
And he puts his mouth to her ear and talks, very softly, uninterrupted, for long minutes. By the time he is done, they are both soaked. She pulls her head back and wipes the wet hair out of her eyes to look at him. To his relief there is no revulsion in her expression, only serious concern, which he dares hope is for him. He frames her face, his thumbs wiping at the rivulets of water running down her cheeks.  
"Do you understand now?" he asks, and can't remember a time when the answer has been more important to him.  
She nods, and says, "Yes," wanting there to be no misunderstanding about this.  
Harry, suddenly overcome, pulls her against him, and when she melts into him, his whole body sings at the sensation. So he just continues to hold her, savouring the feeling, for as long as she lets him.

- 0 –

_Late night  
London, Ukrainian Catholic Cathedral near Grosvenor Square_

Stanley Hayes sits in the Ladies' Chapel, and fights the urge to look at his watch again. There is no one else in the church at this hour. His contact is late, and he wonders if something has happened. Things are coming to a head, and he needs instruction before proceeding. He has the vague outline of a strategy, but he needs to know whether all the variables are in place before he puts it into action. If everything goes to plan, Harry Pearce will be destroyed for good, and the wedge between the US and UK will have been strengthened, hopefully beyond repair. He hears footsteps approaching, and he knows that it is the person he is waiting for. It is the click of the high heels that gives it away. His heart beats fast in his chest, and his eyes are riveted to the door. As always, he can't wait for the first sight of her. At last she appears, tall and elegant and beautiful in her evening gown. Her red hair is swept up, exposing her long neck.  
"Hello, darling," Elena Gavrik says, and slides into the pew next to him. And then she kisses him, decidedly indecently for the pious setting.

_tbc_


	8. Chapter 7

- 0 –

_Between the acting of a dreadful thing  
And the first motion, all the interim is  
Like a phantasma or a hideous dream;  
The genius and the mortal instruments  
Are then in council, and the state of man,  
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then  
The nature of an insurrection._

**Julius Caesar, Act II. Scene I.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_London, Ukrainian Catholic Cathedral_

By the time they pull apart, both are breathing hard.  
"I've missed you," Hayes says, and gazes at Elena adoringly.  
She smiles indulgently, reading the need and dependency in his face with ease. She has succeeded to do to this man what she really wanted to achieve with Harry Pearce. From an early age she has been aware of this power to ensnare men, to weave her beauty and sexual prowess around them until they are helpless in her hands. Right now, for instance, she is certain that she could ask Stanley Hayes to go and shoot the priest in the small front office and he would do so, as long as she promises him sex afterwards. She can see that he is half-aroused from their kiss already. She never quite succeeded with Harry, though, and after their earlier encounter she has begun to understand why. Harry, she now recognises, is unable to lose himself in a woman he doesn't fully trust. And he always doubted her intentions.

"We have a problem," she announces briskly, suddenly all business. Hayes is her weapon, to be programmed and directed now.  
"Harry Pearce knows."  
Alarm spreads across the American's face. "Knows what?"  
"That I betrayed him back in Berlin. Everything he let me see was designed to test my loyalty. And because of that, he also knows that we had to have another source of information."  
"Does he-"  
"He doesn't know about you, no."  
Hayes breathes deeply and relaxes somewhat as he sits back and thinks about things.  
"How did you find all this out?"  
Elena's gaze remains on him unwaveringly. "He told me so, earlier tonight."  
"What? Why would he do that?" Hayes asks incredulously.  
"To blackmail me." Elena can't help but admire the Englishman's audacity, but Hayes does not share that sentiment. All he feels is a growing sense of unease.  
"To do what?"  
And now Elena smiles openly. "He wants me to ensure that the agreement between Russia and Britain is successfully concluded. And to give up the name of our second source."  
The American stares at her, and there is a hint of fear and doubt in his eyes. He has always been aware of Elena's fascination with the Englishman, even though she hid it well.  
She laughs at him. "Don't look so worried, darling. I have a plan."  
Annoyed by the way she is toying with him, he snaps, "Oh yeah?"  
"Oh yes. I am going to make him suspect his dear old friend, James Coaver. And you're going to help me do it."  
Hayes frowns. "How?"  
"You need to get into MI5's paper archives and plant some evidence in the Berlin file."  
He is momentarily speechless. "And how the fuck do you suggest I do that?"  
"Harry has made it easy for us with his recent foolishness over that mousy woman. His own people don't trust him anymore. So all you need to do is to go to their Home Secretary in the morning with the allegation that Harry has been implicated in the attack on your politician. You tell him that the seeds of Harry's hatred for the man were planted during Harry's time in Berlin, and that you need to see those files to prove it."  
Hayes nods slowly. It just may work. "What about the rest of the plan?"  
Elena shifts closer to him. "Everything is in place. The plane arrives early in the morning, and I will bring the goods to the rendezvous as agreed. The Chechens will do the rest – the five targets have already been selected. But no more shop talk for now," she says, reaching for him and stroking him. "I have the key for the little storeroom next door."  
She leads him there and locks the door behind them, and they have urgent sex against the wall. But all through it, he can sense that most of her passion is not really meant for him, and suspects it is a result of unfulfilled desires spilling over from her earlier meeting with Harry Pearce. Jealousy flares bright and hot in him, and he slams into her with all the pent-up fury he feels, bashing her against the wall and nearly knocking the wind out of her.

- 0 –

_London, early next morning  
Heathrow_

Two British customs officials keep a watchful eye on the unloading of the diplomatic crates, making sure that no-one tampers with them until they are loaded into the truck sent by the Russian embassy.  
"Ever wonder what's in there?" one asks the other as he signs off on another crate.  
"Pfft," the other says dismissively, "probably vodka and caviar for the next embassy party. I hear they throw some whoppers."  
The last crate is loaded onto the truck, and they watch it trundle off towards the heart of London.

- 0 –

_09:00  
Home Office_

Towers is engrossed in the latest budget report when his intercom buzzes. "Sir, Messrs Frank Ellis and Stanley Hayes from the CIA are here and wish to speak to you. They do not have an appointment." The PA sounds distinctly disapproving.  
Towers frowns. He doesn't really have the time, and is about to send them away when the PA adds, "They say to tell you that it is about Sir Harry's involvement in the bomb blast in Texas."  
Towers hesitates, then hits the button. "Send them in."  
He stands and moves to the window, wondering what is going on. For some time he has had the feeling that a storm is brewing, and that Harry is the focus of it. First there was Harry's strange insistence on being included in the negotiations with Ilya Gavrik, and now this. Add to that the phone call he received late last night from Ruth Evershed, accepting the job offer he made her and asking to start straight away. It all paints a worrying picture, and he wonders whether Harry has finally cracked under the pressure.

- 0 –

_The Grid_

Dimitri rubs his neck wearily. He has been at it all night, and he feels grubby and gritty. The air in the interrogation room is stale by now, but their informant remains resolutely quiet. He simply refuses to say another word until he sees a written agreement that his brother will receive indemnity. Dimitri and Erin debated the matter at length, and in the end Erin has gone off to the Home Office to get the letter. They are both convinced that the man knows more than he is saying, and hope that the appearance of the letter will loosen his tongue. Just as Dimitri contemplates leaving the room to get some water, the door behind him slides open and Erin appears, paper in hand. She gives Dimitri a slight nod and strides over to the table, where she slaps the letter down in front of their prisoner.  
"Here's your letter."  
She gives him a moment to peruse it before demanding, "Now tell us everything you know."  
The Chechen leans back in his chair and licks his dry lips. He continues to finger the letter as though to convince himself that it's really there. His eyes lift to his two inquisitors and flit between them, before they slide away again slyly. Before he even opens his mouth the anger begins to push up in Dimitri's chest.  
"We will need jobs, and hous-" the Chechen begins, but Dimitri's hand slapping down on the table with a loud bang brings him up short.  
"Enough! Your brother wants a new life here, in England, and to get it he is willing to assist in a terror plot against the very country he wants to live in. And you have the nerve to make more demands. Let me spell out what's going to happen for you – either you sit here and make more demands, and we don't stop the attack in time, in which case that deal-" he stabs a finger at the letter, "is null and void and your brother goes to jail for a very long time. Alternatively you start talking right now, we stop the attack, and your brother gets a chance at a new life. Your choice."  
The last words are delivered straight into the Chechen's face as Dimtiri plants his palms on the table and leans across it menacingly. He is close enough to smell the man's rank breath as he expels a puff of air, and to read the flash of fear in his eyes.  
"All right," the Chechen says eventually. "All I know is that the explosives will come in via diplomatic bag, and will be delivered to my brother and the others tonight."  
"Where?" Erin asks immediately.  
"I don't know."  
"Which country's diplomatic bag?"  
The Chechen looks at her with an ironic smile. "Russia's."

- 0 –

When they arrive back on the Grid, it is permeated with a funereal air. Tariq and Calum are huddled behind their consoles, looking stunned and confused. Harry is ensconced in his office, head bent over some paperwork, and the two techies continuously cast furtive glances in his direction.  
"What's going on?" Erin demands.  
Calum looks up. "Mama Bear has left the den," he states in a somewhat hushed voice.  
Erin frowns in confusion, but Dimitri's gaze flicks over to Ruth's station. Her desk has obviously been cleared.  
"Ruth has left?" he asks, shocked.  
"Yep."  
"Why?"  
Calum shrugs. "The official version is that the Home Sec made her an offer she couldn't refuse. But maybe she and Papa Bear had a lover's tiff, who knows."  
A tight, cold voice cuts through their conversation. "The official version is the only one you need concern yourself with, Mr Reid." Harry stands behind them, having emerged from his office unobserved.

Calum flushes and looks at Harry fearfully, but the older man does not acknowledge him. "What news, Erin?" he asks instead.  
She swiftly relays what they have learnt, and Harry looks grim.  
"Do you think it's linked to Gavrik?" Dimitri asks, and Harry nods once, stiffly.  
"Options?" he asks, and Erin thinks for a moment.  
"Well, we have to assume that the explosives are being kept at the Russian embassy."  
"If it has arrived already," Calum points out.  
"It has," Tariq announces, and points to his screen. "Four crates arrived on an early morning flight and have been collected by the embassy truck."  
"That's a problem," Erin says. "I think you should go the diplomatic route, Harry. Get Towers to call in the Ambassador and confront him."  
"No, odds are that the Ambassador knows nothing about this. Besides, he'll immediately start bleating about diplomatic immunity, and he'd be right. We have no proof, only the word of an untested source under duress."  
Dimitri looks at Harry. "We could try to get into the embassy, confirm the contents of those crates," he suggests, and Harry feels a flash of liking for his officer. He admires the daring behind many of Dimitri's suggestions.  
"Risky, but tempting," he responds.  
Erin, alarmed at the thought of breaking into an embassy, swiftly suggests another plan. "Or we could stake out the embassy and follow any trucks leaving tonight? That way we not only get confirmation that the information is accurate, but we also get the people the explosives will be delivered to."  
Harry thinks about it. "Okay, let's go with Erin's suggestion. Set it up."  
As he stalks off, Dimitri turns to Calum with a smirk. "Great career move, genius. You poked the bear."  
Calum tries to laugh it off, but there is a glimmer of worry behind the bravado.

- 0 –

_Home Office_

When Ruth arrives at her new place of work, a woman slightly younger than herself waits for her at the door to Towers' offices.  
"Miss Evershed?" she says brightly. "I'm Margo. The Home Secretary is still in a meeting, but I can help you settle in."  
Ruth barely gets time to say hello before Margo leads her off at a brisk pace, pointing out toilets, tea rooms, copiers and printers as she goes. As they arrive at a desk which Margo identifies as Ruth's, she asks brightly, "How do you take your tea or coffee?"  
Ruth is caught off guard. "Sorry?"  
"How do you take your tea, or coffee, whichever you prefer?"  
Ruth begins to shake her head. "It's fine, I can make my own-"  
Margo smiles gently. "I am your PA, Miss Evershed. It's part of the job description."  
Ruth stares at her, unable to comprehend what she's been told. She has a PA. It takes a few moments for the thought to sink in, and all she can manage to say in response is, "Call me Ruth."  
Her attention is drawn by two men leaving Towers' office, and she immediately recognises the CIA Director for Europe. More worryingly, she also recognises the second face from the passport photo she has seen – Stanley Hayes. Before she has time to process the implications, Towers appears in his door and waves her over. "Ruth. Welcome. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to have you on board."  
She follows him into his office, her thoughts involuntarily going to her previous boss, and just for a second she is filled with fear and deep regret.

- 0 –

Harry settles behind his desk and watches as his reduced team set about planning the operation. Ruth has only been gone for an hour and already he feels her absence keenly. It is amazing how comforting and calming he finds her mere presence, and he experiences a moment of panic at the thought that she is no longer there. He wonders if this is the first step in losing her completely, before shaking it off and picking up his mobile. This is not the time to get morose – there is work to be done.  
Jim Coaver answers, and Harry shortly identifies himself. He briefly appraises Jim of the recent developments, and asks him to keep it to himself.  
"With luck, I may be in a position to identify our mole after tonight."

- 0 –

_Home Office_

Ruth's first task is to sit in on discussions on intelligence sharing between Ilya Gavrik, her new boss and her former boss. It is the sort of thing, Ruth knows, that Harry hates with a passion, and she wonders what kind of mood he will be in. Gavrik and his delegation arrive a few minutes early. The Russian Minister is charming and friendly, and Ruth has to remind herself that this man was once a senior KGB officer. She wonders how much Harry has told Towers about his history with the Gavriks. The object of her thoughts strides into the room at that very moment, and her heart skips a beat. She saw him only a few hours ago, but already it feels as though they have been apart for days. Perhaps she suffers from stimulation overload – on top of her new job, there is also everything that Harry told her last night to absorb and to deal with. She is still trying to make all the pieces fit into a coherent whole, and the fact that she has been unable to do so yet unsettles her. She slides a critical eye over Harry; he looks tired and tense, and that worries her more than anything else. He catches her eye and, just for a moment, the weight seems to lift from him. It warms her and discomfits her at the same time, and she begins to wonder whether she's made a mistake in leaving him alone on the Grid.

As soon as the formalities are out of the way, Ilya says, "My government feels it is important to share intelligence about incidents that caused misunderstanding between our two countries in the past. We need to understand the past if we are to move forward to a harmonious future."  
"I think that is an excellent idea," Towers says brightly and turns expectantly to Harry, who is watching Gavrik steadily.  
"You first," he tells the Russian, earning an annoyed glare from Towers.  
Ruth suppresses a fond smile; she adores Harry's curmudgeonly side.  
The two men measure each other in silence for a few seconds, before Gavrik laughs.  
"Actually, I agree with you, Harry. Perhaps we should let sleeping dogs lie for now."  
"Ilya," Harry says, his voice grave, "is your government truly committed to this proposed sharing of intelligence in future?"  
Ilya's total focus settles on Harry, and for a second Ruth feels as though everything but the two men have faded away.  
"I give you that assurance," Ilya says at last, "as much as it is in my power to give."  
Harry's eyes flicker with something undefinable, and then he nods. "Then so do I."  
The atmosphere in the room changes, and Ruth is aware that something momentous seems to have passed between the two former adversaries in those few sentences.

- 0 –

_Late night  
Marriott Hotel_

Stanley Hayes gets back to his room and wearily throws his suit jacket on the bed. He is sick and tired of London, and wishes for nothing more than to go home. He does not like to leave the politician to his own devices for too long. Hayes reflects once again about how unsuited Jeff Wilmore is for High Office. In fact, his only redeeming feature is the fact that he can be thoroughly manipulated, and Hayes intends to exploit that to the maximum. It is a heady thought; the possibility that he, Stan Hayes, may soon be the power behind the proverbial throne. Since the bombing Wilmore's popularity has spiked, and there is a real chance now that he will become the Republican nominee. And all it took was a little explosion. A winking light catches his eye, and he moves over to the dresser. A red light is flashing on the small recording device to which he's routed the intercepts from Jim Coaver's phone. Curious, he pushes the button, and Harry Pearce's voice fills the room. Hayes stands stock-still, listening carefully to the conversation, before glancing at his watch. Too late to warn Elena. He stands for a few seconds more before exploding into action.

- 0 –

_London, Russian embassy_

Calum and Erin watch the monitors in the surveillance van in tense silence. Calum is jiggling his leg and drumming his fingers on the table, a bundle of nervous energy.  
Just as Erin loses patience and forcefully stills his fingers, the door slides open and Harry clambers in, bringing the dampness of the night with him.  
"Everything in place?" he asks, forsaking the social niceties.  
"Yes," Erin responds, "Dimitri and Tariq are in position." Then she adds, with a warning glare at her companion, "Now if only Calum can sit still my life would be perfect."  
"I should have been out there instead of Tariq," Calum grumbles.  
Harry glances at him. "Refresh my memory – when was the last time you were on a bicycle?"  
Erin laughs as Calum scowls and mumbles, "When I was at school."  
"Cheer up, Cal," she says, "next time we need to throw someone under a truck, I promise it'll be you."  
Calum swallows his retort when movement at the embassy gate catches his eye.  
"We're on," he says as a blue nondescript truck noses its way through the gate and turns down the street.  
Erin hits the comms button. "Tariq, blue truck with diplomatic plates. Should reach the corner in thirty seconds."  
She turns to Calum. "Traffic light?"  
"I am the lord of London traffic tonight," he proclaims, his finger poised above the Enter key. They watch the truck approach the light, slowing down to stop at the red. Just as it has almost come to a stop, Calum hits the key, and the light turns green. All lights at the intersection are now simultaneously green, and as the truck begins to accelerate, a cyclist crosses right in front of it. He swerves wildly to avoid the oncoming vehicle and goes down hard on the rain-slicked road. The truck slams on its brakes and barely avoids running over the prone cyclist.  
Erin winces. "Still wish it were you?" she teases Calum, as the cyclist struggles upright, cursing and gesticulating at the driver. The truck speeds off as soon as he is out of the way, and Tariq's voice comes through.  
"Tracker is in place," he reports, and Harry smiles. "Good work. No lasting damage done, I hope?"  
"Nah. As a regular cyclist in this city I know how to fall down by now."  
Even Calum smiles at that.  
"Here we go," Erin says as a green dot begins to show the route the truck is taking. "Dimitri, are you getting this?"  
"Affirmative. We're tracking now." He nods at the CO19 team leader and they move off, following at a safe distance. The surveillance van does the same.

The truck makes its way to an abandoned lot next to a housing estate in east London. As it pulls in, a car parked in the far corner flashes its lights twice. The truck does the same, and moves forward until it stops close by the car.  
By the time the occupants of the truck alight, CO19 has sent a man forward with a camera, which feeds back images of what is happening to the surveillance van. They watch silently as five men emerge from the car and surrounding shadows, and wait for the two occupants of the truck to reach them. The two people pass through a pool of light and for a few seconds, the red hair of the woman sparkles unmistakably on their screen.  
Erin draws in a sharp breath. "Elena Gavrik?!" She turns to Harry, who continues to watch the screen implacably.  
"You don't seem all that surprised," she states.  
"I'm not," he says evenly before leaning forward to speak into the comms. "Lock it down, Dimitri. I'm on my way."

- 0 –

Elena hands over a printed page to the leader of the group of five men. "This is the itinerary of the Home Secretary. Your best window of opportunity may be-"  
She breaks off, tilting her head to listen. Far off she can hear footsteps and someone whistling a tune.  
"What-" one of the men begins, but she cuts him off with a vicious hiss.  
"Quiet!"  
The whistling moves ever closer, and after a few seconds she recognises the song. _Musetta's Waltz_. From _La Bohème_. Elena looks around her, and now that she knows what to look for, she is able to pick out the Special Forces that surround them, and her shoulders drop.  
"Do not move," she tells her companions, and turns back to the sound of whistling in time to see Harry walk around the corner, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat. He continues to whistle until he comes to the natural end of the tune, by which time he is a few feet away from Elena. He stops and they regard each other silently.  
"Check mate," he says softly, his eyes flickering over her face. Searching for something. Remorse, perhaps. Whatever it is, he doesn't find it, and his gaze hardens. "It's over, Elena. Ilya won't be able to save you from this one. But if you give me the name of the double agent in the CIA, I will show you mercy."

High up in one of the housing estate flats, Hayes finds them through the scope of his rifle. He moves his focus between the two, reads the words "double agent" and "CIA" on his adversary's lips, and watch Elena open her mouth to respond. He somehow knows that she is about to sell him out, and cold fury burns through his veins. His whole adult life, it seems, he has lived in fear of this day, of this man. Ever since that day in Berlin that he saw Harry Pearce run down the street, and knew that the English spook may have seen him exit the safe house, he has feared this day. He takes careful aim, takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, and squeezes the trigger.

Down below, he sees the mist of blood as the bullet enters the target's head and explodes out the other side, and then he is moving, scrambling backwards and running down the stairs.

_tbc_


	9. Chapter 8

- 0 –

_Cowards die many times before their deaths;  
The valiant never taste of death but once.  
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,  
It seems to me most strange that men should fear  
Seeing that death, a necessary end,  
Will come when it will come._

**Julius Caesar, Act II. Scene II.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_London, late night  
A few seconds earlier_

Harry watches Elena carefully. He can see her weigh up the options available to her. She must know that her own country will disown her, even if the order for the attacks has come from President Putin himself. Everything now depends on whether she trusts him enough to accept his offer of mercy. Her eyes wander over his face, and fleetingly he reads fondness in that gaze. That's when he knows he has won – she is about to confirm his suspicions. She will give him the proof he needs to act against Hayes. She opens her mouth, but she never gets to utter the name. As if in slow motion, he sees the right side of her face explode, feels her blood spatter over his own, before the rapport of the shot reaches them. He stands, staring at her dumbly, aware that she is dead even before she begins to topple forward. And then he himself is falling, and Dimitri's voice is screaming in his ear, telling everyone to get down. Harry hits the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him and scrape his left cheek, his officer's weight pressing him into the asphalt. He lies there, unable to move, and stares into the dead eyes of Elena Gavrik numbly. Her blood trickles towards him, following the cracks in the asphalt, and he watches it with detached fascination. He shared a bed with this woman once. He was infatuated with her, once, despite knowing that she was playing him. And now she is dead, her blood seeping into England's soil, and he feels nothing. It is the moment that he knows, for certain, that it is time to get out, if he wants to save the last vestiges of humanity that he has left.

- 0 –

_Twenty minutes later _

Harry sits in the surveillance van, paying no attention to the activity flowing around him. Calum glances at his blood-spattered boss from time to time, but for once in his life refrains from making some or other snarky comment. There is a distant, dead look in Harry's eyes that scares them all, that makes them keep away. His face and clothes are still speckled with the Russian woman's blood; he has made no attempt to wipe himself clean, and no-one else dares suggest it.  
Erin clambers in and glances between the two silent men. She is amazed that Calum is not jabbering constantly, his normal default position when nervous. Her focus turns to Harry, and she frowns reprovingly at the sight of the blood still adorning one side of his face.  
"The shooter got away. We found the casing of the bullet in an empty flat on the tenth floor, but of course no-one saw or heard anything."  
Harry looks at her, expressionless, then looks away again. He says nothing.  
"Ilya Gavrik has been informed," she persists. "He'll come to do the identification at the mortuary. I'll go there to meet him, to explain. What do you want me to tell him?"  
Harry finally stirs. "I'll do it. You take care of those Chechens."  
With that, he gets out and strides over to the Coroner, and asks for a lift to the mortuary.  
Erin watches him go with concern, then steps out of the van to make a call.

- 0 –

_One hour later  
London, state mortuary_

Ruth enters the viewing room quietly. Harry stands at the foot of the table, still in his coat and gloves, hands folded in front of him as he stares at the shrouded figure pensively. She watches him for a moment, understanding immediately why Erin felt the need to call her. He looks awful.  
"Harry," she says gently, and when he swivels his head to her, her stomach turns at the sight of the blood. She moves forward to stand next to him and they stare at the dead woman in unison.  
"Ilya Gavrik is waiting outside," she finally says, at a loss as to how to reach him.  
He nods wordlessly, a flash of anguish crossing his face.  
"You should…" she gestures at his face, and his right hand lifts to touch the blood, almost wonderingly.  
She moves to the basin and wets a cloth handkerchief. "Let me?" she asks softly, and he nods again, his eyes finding hers and holding on desperately. She begins to wipe the blood away, working gently and methodically. He stares at her the whole time, and she is aware of a sense of ritual; standing here with the corpse of Elena Gavrik, cleansing the face of the man she loves from her blood. Harry's eyes continues to search her face, and she knows what he is looking for; a hint of revulsion, a sign that it is finally one step too far for her to forgive. But he finds no sign of such thoughts. It is as though she is saying, with this simple, gentle act, that she accepts him for who and what he is. She doesn't care that he is covered in blood, both physically and metaphorically. They all are, in a sense.  
She smiles lovingly at him. "Better," she announces, and is relieved when some of the life seems to come back into him.  
"Thanks." He finds her fingers, squeezes them.  
He takes a deep breath, releases it, and instructs, "Better show Ilya in. Make sure that we're left alone for as long as needed."  
She hesitates momentarily and scans his face. "What are you going to do?"  
He smiles, and although there is a hint of bitterness there, he looks more like his old self. "I'm going to do my duty."

- 0 –

The door opens and Ilya is ushered in. It closes again behind him, and for the first time in more than thirty years the two men are alone. Ilya's eyes flit to the covered figure and he steps forward, coming to a stop next to the head. Harry also moves forward and takes up position on the other side of the table. Ilya's gaze lifts to Harry, taking in the blood speckling his collar, and nods. His face is tight with the effort of controlling his emotions. Harry folds back the sheet to expose the face. One side of the head is bandaged to hide the worst of the damage done by the bullet but the identity of the deceased is unmistakable. Ilya stares wordlessly at the lifeless face for a long time, before he looks up at Harry.  
"What happened?"  
Harry briefly explains about the planned attacks on London and Elena's part in it, and his belief that it is meant to drive a wedge between Britain and the US.  
"An untested source alleged that the CIA is involved, but I suspect that to be the double agent I know to exist."  
He pauses, his gaze falling to Elena. "I also suspect the double agent shot her. He must have somehow found out that we knew about tonight's meeting, and he knew that once we've caught her red-handed, she would most likely have given him up."  
He looks back at Ilya searchingly. "You didn't know about the planned attacks?"  
The Russian shakes his head. "All I was told is that there will be a parallel operation running in London that will improve the chances of concluding the security deal successfully."  
Harry watches him carefully but can see no sign that he is lying.  
"But you knew enough to warn me," he persists, thinking back to the postcard he received.  
Ilya smiles, a little sardonically. "I saw Elena with your file. In light of what happened in Berlin, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you would pose a threat to any underhanded plans."  
The two men regard each other across the table, measuring each other.  
"It was smart to use the same method and words I used to deactivate you thirty years ago. But I must admit that I was surprised by the postcard," Harry says at length.  
Ilya gives a slight shake of the head. "You thought I would renege on my promise," he states, somewhat offended, and Harry shrugs.  
"Time warps and dampens our memory of events, Ilya," he says quietly, but Ilya shakes his head adamantly.  
"You saved what is most precious to me in this world. How can I forget that?"

- 0 –

_March 1981  
Berlin_

Harry has been in Berlin for two weeks now, and he is slowly getting to know the lay of the land. He has already been on the obligatory bender with his CIA counterpart, Jim Coaver, whom he was ordered in no uncertain terms to work closely together with. Harry can't quite understand the time-honoured tradition of spies the world over, who seem to believe that once you've got drunk with someone, the bond of friendship and trust is unshakable. Perhaps it has something to do with seeing someone at their absolute worst, but he puts little faith in it. Poor Coaver came off worse from the exercise; Harry's experiences as a soldier in Northern Ireland and as a student at Oxford standing him in good stead. And the night did deliver an unexpected dividend, as Jim drunkenly confided in him about the CIA's plan to eliminate the senior KGB officer in East Berlin, Ilya Gavrik. They have hired two East German dissidents, Jim divulged, swaying ominously and focussing somewhere to the left of Harry's face, and have given them rudimentary explosives training. They will plant a bomb under Gavrik's car, set to explode as he takes his small son to kindergarten. It is the first thing he does each day, and thus the only time they will be sure that he is in the car when the bomb goes off.

Though Harry was rather drunk himself by then, he was not far enough gone not to be perturbed by the plan. While he has no qualms about assassinating the KGB man, he does not like the callousness with which the CIA is willing to sacrifice the small boy. He is an innocent, and innocents must be protected as far as possible. Since then he has quietly dug for more information, and has been able to obtain the date on which the deed is to be done. Which is why he crossed into East Berlin late last night, hidden in the throngs of casual workers that come to West Berlin every day and return to their miserable existences on the other side of the Wall again each night. And why he is concealed beside a deserted stretch of road not far from the Gavriks' house. As he waits, he is vaguely aware that this act may mean the end of his career before it's barely begun, but his sense of honour will not allow him to let this come to pass. Not after what happened to Bill- No, what he _allowed_ to happen to Bill in Northern Ireland. The sound of an approaching car draws his attention, and he focuses on the turn up ahead. It is Ilya Gavrik's car, and he waits for it to come a bit closer before he steps boldly into the middle of the road, gun in hand.

The car breaks violently, slewing across the road and coming to a stop inches away from him. Harry moves around swiftly to the driver's side and points the gun at Gavrik's head.  
"Get your son and move away from the car," he orders in Russian. "Be quick, there is a bomb."  
The Russian stares at him, and he must have read the sincerity in Harry's face because he moves quickly. He gathers the little boy from the backseat and sprints towards the cover of the trees at the side of the road, Harry hot on his heels. They barely have time to fling themselves down behind a fallen log when a huge explosion rips through the car, and a wave of scalding air sweeps over them. Debris rains down, but they are mercifully unscathed. The boy begins to cry and Gavrik folds him against his chest. "Hush, Sasha. It's all right."  
He looks over the boy's head at the man sitting up gingerly a few feet away. The gun is no longer in his hand; he must have lost it in the scramble for cover. Gavrik looks around discreetly but can't locate it.  
"You saved our lives," he says, unable to hide his surprise.  
The man dusts down his front, but says nothing.  
Gavrik continues. "You're the new MI6 man in West Berlin, Harry Pearce," he states, and the man glances at him briefly before pouting in annoyance at a tear in his shirt.  
The Russian switches to English effortlessly. "I would have run you over had my son not been in the car with me."  
Harry smiles at that. "I know."  
"Then why did you risk it?" Gavrik asks in bafflement.  
"Because I have to believe that it is possible to remain a decent human being despite the dark deeds we are called on to do."  
The boy is watching Harry now, curious blue eyes focussed on him. Harry looks back gravely and then says, "He's a beautiful boy." His eyes lift back to Gavrik's. "A child should not have to pay for the sins of the father. If you'd been alone in the car, I would not have interfered."  
Gavrik digests that. The humanity shown by this man, his enemy, surprises him, and he wonders fleetingly what he would have done in the same situation.  
"Thank you," he offers, and Harry nods and lifts himself to his feet.  
"Take care of your boy," he says in return, and starts to walk off through the trees.  
Gavrik hesitates for a few seconds before he calls after Harry. "My wife is spying on me."

Harry stops, then turns around slowly to stare at the Russian. He wonders why the man has chosen to share this with a total stranger, and an enemy to boot.  
"For whom?" he asks carefully.  
Gavrik laughs, and Harry wonders whether he is suffering from delayed shock.  
"For the KGB."  
Harry frowns. "But you're a senior KGB officer."  
Gavrik looks away towards the burning wreck before answering, "It seems that I am no longer trusted by my own country."  
"Why?"  
"Turns out they don't really need a reason." His voice turns bitter. "I suppose this is what happens if you rule a country by fear. Comrade Stalin may be long dead, but we are still paying for his paranoia. The way to get ahead is by denouncing people who thought you were their friend, for not being a true Communist."  
Harry comes back and sits down next to the Russian on the log.  
"What _is_ a true Communist?" he wonders.  
Ilya shakes his head. "That has never been made clear to me."

The boy, Sasha, has wriggled out of his father's embrace and now stands a little way off, one finger in his mouth as he watches Harry with large blue eyes.  
"How do you know your wife is spying on you?" Harry asks curiously, his thoughts going back to Jane.  
"Because I am very good at what I do," the Russian says. It is not a boast; he is stating a fact.  
Mindful of the details in the file he was given on Ilya Gavrik, Harry nods slowly.  
"I dare say you are. Otherwise you would never have risen so high whilst there is a doubt about your dedication to the Communist cause."  
The acrid smell of burning fuel drifts towards them on the wind.  
"Why are you telling me this?" Harry asks eventually.  
Ilya hesitates for long seconds, before he closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, there is a new resolve in them. "You were willing to risk yourself to save my son's life, even though I am your enemy. You are a good man. I want to repay the mercy you have shown us."  
He looks at Harry squarely. "I want to give you information."

Harry is stunned. They have been unable to secure a truly high-grade Russian asset for many years, but now he is being offered a chance to change that. His mind immediately goes into work mode, as he thinks about the practicalities of making it work.  
"If you're right about your wife-"  
"I am."  
"-she could be a problem."  
Just for a moment, revulsion flashes across Ilya's face. "Whatever else she is, she gave me Sasha," he says, and Harry realises that the Russian thinks he intends to eliminate Elena Gavrik.  
"I'm not going to kill her, Gavrik," he says soothingly.  
"But how else are you going to prevent her from finding out what I'm doing?"  
Harry smiles. "I'm going to try and recruit her."

- 0 –

_London, 2011_

The plan they concocted that morning in the woods worked beyond Harry's wildest dreams. He had immediately set about trying to recruit Elena Gavrik, and as a result took any suspicion off her husband. As soon as she began to feed him information, he quietly activated Ilya, who gave him the real versions of the falsified documents Elena was feeding him. And therein lay the greatest danger currently facing them – those documents were probably still somewhere in the files. If the American double agent were to somehow get access to those, he would know that Harry had another, real asset. It would expose Ilya immediately.  
"Ilya," Harry says, "do you know the identity of the CIA double agent?"  
Ilya pulls his gaze away from his dead wife. "I have my suspicions, but I do not have any proof. You?"  
"The same," Harry says, his frustration coming through. "But tonight proved one thing: he is definitely here, in London, at this very moment."  
"Can you flush him out?"  
"I don't know. If not, more drastic measures may be required."  
Ilya looks at him steadily. "I have the confidence of my President. Now would be a good time to re-activate me."  
Harry takes a deep breath. "You're sure you want to continue with this?"  
"We agreed, all those years ago when things went to hell in Berlin, to let me sleep until I'm in a position to provide vital intelligence. That time is now, and yes, I want to continue. I do not appreciate my country being run by people who have such close connections to the Mafia."  
Harry considers, very tempted to activate his asset on the spot, but in the end he shakes his head. "We have to nullify the double agent first."

Ilya nods; he knows that Harry is right. His gaze drifts back to his dead wife, and just for a second Harry sees deep sorrow flit across his features. It surprises him; he cannot fathom what it must do to a man to share his life with someone that he knows for a fact is betraying him.  
"I'm sorry for your loss, Ilya," he says quietly, and the Russian lifts his eyes back to him.  
"I loved her, despite everything," he says, a slight tremor in his voice for the first time. "I know that must be difficult to understand."  
Harry's thoughts go back to the woman waiting for him outside the room. "No," he says slowly, "love is… forgiving."

- 0 –

_Marriott Hotel, Grosvenor Square_

Hayes is about to go to bed when his phone rings. When he picks it up, his hand is shaking.  
"This is Home Secretary Towers. I will take you to see the Berlin documents early tomorrow morning. We have to be in and out before Harry Pearce gets to the office, though."  
Hayes thanks him, and climbs into bed wearily. He has a gun close at hand, and lies there, staring at the ceiling. His nerves are frayed and he jumps at every sound. When he finally falls into uneasy slumber, he dreams of Elena making love to him, one side of her head blown away and her mouth set in a rictus grin of death. He jerks awake, sweaty and panting, and tries to focus his mind on what he has to do the next morning.

_tbc_


	10. Chapter 9

- 0 –

_And Caesar's spirit ranging for revenge,  
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,  
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice  
Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war,  
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth  
With carrion men, groaning for burial._

**Julius Caesar, Act III. Scene I.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_Early morning hours  
London_

Ruth drives them home from the morgue. Though Harry is still too quiet for her taste, at least some of the life has come back to him. He stares at the quiet city outside the window, lips pursed in a way which she has come to know means that he is working through some puzzle in his mind.  
"What have you found out about Hayes?" he suddenly asks.  
She takes a moment to order her thoughts. "He joined the CIA in 1978, and was posted as a deep cover agent to Berlin in 1980. He seems to have had some success in establishing himself with the Stasi, pretending to be a dissident American in the hope that they would recruit him. It almost worked, but when your whole network was rolled up in '81 the CIA pulled all their people out of East Germany, including Hayes."  
"So by the time I got there Hayes had probably already been turned by Elena." He sighs in frustration. "I _know_ it's him, but I have no proof. You could find no hint in his past of Communist leanings?"  
Ruth shakes her head. "None." She glances at him. "But we have seen people do strange things for love, Harry."  
"…Not sure I'd call it love," he mutters.  
"What are you going to do?" she asks.  
"There's nothing I can do until I have proof. But I have to protect Ilya at all costs. Hayes must on no account find out that he is my asset, and if I have to take drastic measures to ensure that, I will."  
A chill goes through Ruth at those words; she knows exactly what he means, and she has a vague feeling of unease about the consequences of such a step.  
"Will you dig deeper?" he asks. "Look at family members, former girlfriends, everything. For all we know he had an uncle that lost his job during the McCarthy purges or something ridiculous."  
She smiles slightly and nods. "Okay, but it will take longer now that I'm no longer on the Grid."  
He looks at her, his eyes sad. "I know. But if this blows up in my face, I don't want you caught in the fall-out." His eyes stay on her, as he suddenly announces, "I'm tired, Ruth. I've had enough of death and deceit. When this is over, I'm going to retire."  
She lets out a long breath and her hands flex on the wheel. Though she is somewhat surprised that he has actually vocalised it, the sentiment is not unexpected. It was evident in his face earlier that evening. And on some level she is relieved; fear for his safety is a constant presence in her life, and perhaps that will no longer be necessary once he has retired. So she reaches out, takes his hand and squeezes it. "If that's what you want."  
"It is," he says as he weaves their fingers together.

When they get home, he lets her lead him to the bathroom, where she strips them both and ushers him into the shower. She washes him carefully, diligently cleaning off the last of Elena's blood that escaped her earlier attempt. When she is done, she tenderly kisses the graze on his left cheek, and he turns his head and captures her mouth. It is a hungry kiss, and it seals the newfound understanding between them. He eventually pulls away and frames her face with his hands. "Marry me, Ruth? Once I have retired."  
Her eyes find his, surprised and a little touched that he dared ask again. And this time she never contemplates rejection.  
"I will," she says, and the broad smile that spreads across his face warms her to the core.

- 0 –

_06:30  
Thames House_

Towers ushers Stan Hayes through the security checks and leads the way to the Registry. He is irritable; he's had very little sleep after having to deal with the fiasco of having a Russian Minister's wife killed on British soil. Harry has fed him some cockamamie story about the Chechens being behind it, but he doesn't believe it. There is more to this, but his Security Services apparently doesn't deem fit to inform him. This only strengthens his current unease about his Head of Counter Terrorism's state of mind; it is also the main reason he has agreed to give Hayes access to the Berlin files. Thankfully the Russians were happy enough to swallow the Chechen story, though he had to endure many a barbed comment about the 'Little Island's" inability to secure its territory.

A bleary-eyed clerk hands Hayes a stack of files and points him to a small desk in the corner.  
"You have one hour," Towers says shortly before he settles himself behind a much larger table and begins to make calls.

Hayes opens the first file, his eyes continuously flitting to the clerk and Towers to check whether they are watching him. He has the document he intends to slip into the file attached to the inside of his jacket, but he needs a few seconds without anyone watching to do so. Towers is not paying him much attention; Hayes can sense the man's unease at allowing him to look at these files. It is well known that Towers has huge respect for Harry Pearce, so the American is not surprised at the reticence. The clerk, however, is watching him like a hawk, so he begins to read the top file attentively to assuage her suspicion. Despite himself, he is soon engrossed, the files taking him back to that exciting period in his life. In fact he finds it quite amusing to read the young Harry Pearce's reports on his attempts to turn Elena Gavrik, and by the time he gets to the breathless report to indicate that the recruitment was successful, he has a hard time not to laugh out loud. Poor, deluded fool. That feeling soon evaporates, though, when he gets to the source reports logged against Elena's name. They are most definitely not the same ones she showed him, pointing out the ways in which the KGB had doctored the originals to mislead their enemies. They are, indisputably, the original documents, and that's when he knows. Elena was cover for another, real asset, and Harry Pearce not only outwitted the KGB, but also the CIA. There is a roaring noise in his head, growing louder all the time, and he has the urge to stand up and scream out his frustration. He has to get out of here, and get word to his Russian masters, because there is only one other person that could have given these documents to the British spook. Another even more alarming thought now occurs to him - the fact that Pearce never gave the real intel to the CIA also shows that he suspected there was a double agent in their Berlin set-up from the start. Hayes swallows, his mouth dry; the moment Harry Pearce finds out that he has seen these files, his life will be worth nothing.

- 0 –

_Home Office_

Ruth comes in early, hoping to use Home Office resources to delve further into Stanley Hayes' past. There is no-one in the outer office where she has a desk, and she quickly settles down to get to work. She desperately wants a cup of tea, but Margo is not in yet and she is hesitant to make her own. She did so once, but Margo looked so crestfallen at this show of independence from her new boss that Ruth does not have the heart to do it again. Her computer has just logged on, however, when the door opens and Towers' PA strolls in.  
"Oh hello, Ruth. You're in early. Trying to impress the Boss?" she asks with a cheeky smile, then adds, "Not much use when he's not in to notice, unfortunately."  
Ruth smiles back. "Why are you here so early if he's not in then?"  
"Oh, he was here, but they left for Thames House a while ago."  
Ruth frowns. "'They'?"  
The PA nods. "He took that ghastly American to look at some files."  
She looks at Ruth curiously when all the colour drains from the analyst's face.  
"Are you all right, Ruth? You look very pale."  
Ruth forces a smile. "Fine. Didn't get much sleep last night. Listen, I need to speak to the Boss urgently. Can you get him on the line for me?"  
"Sure," the PA says, still watching Ruth worriedly. When she doesn't move, Ruth prompts with a hint of command in her voice, "Now, please."

- 0 –

When Towers comes on the line, he sounds annoyed. "Ruth. What do you need?"  
"Home Secretary," she responds. He has asked her on numerous occasions to call him William, but she has not quite managed it yet. She hesitates, weighing her options, and decides to go for a version of the truth. "You have taken Stanley Hayes to look at the Berlin files, and by doing that you have endangered one of the most important operations in MI5 history."  
"Hold on," Towers snaps, and she hears him walk down a corridor and close a door behind him. "Now, what the hell is going on? What operation?"  
"A long term operation by Harry to secure an agent in the highest echelons of the Russian government," she says, fervently hoping that she is not further endangering Ilya Gavrik by doing so.  
"Yes, yes, I know all about Harry's attempts to recruit Ilya Gavrik's wife – something which he buggered up royally, by the way," Towers responds impatiently. "Now, if you don't-"  
"Elena Gavrik was not the asset," Ruth interrupts. "She was a smokescreen."  
There is a long silence.  
"Harry has another source?" Towers asks at length.  
"Yes, and by allowing Hayes access to those files, you have just blown that source," Ruth states mercilessly.  
But Towers is not a man easily cowed. "How? Hayes is on our side."  
It is Ruth's turn to pause. "No, he is not."  
"I don't understand."  
Ruth takes a deep breath, and spells it out. "He's working for the Russians."  
"What?!" Towers exclaims, shocked. "You have proof of this?"  
"None that will stand up in court, but there is no doubt."  
Towers digests that. "If all you have is one of Harry's infamous gut feelings, I will tell you right now that at this moment in time I'm inclined to doubt the veracity."  
"He's not wrong this time," she says a tad defensively. "I have looked at the available information and I have come to the same conclusion. Hayes shot Elena Gavrik, Home Secretary."  
"And do you have proof of that?"  
"…No."  
"Ruth, you can't expect me to-"  
"Do you really want to risk the safety of the best Russian source we've ever had on the off chance that Harry is wrong, Home Secretary?"  
For almost a minute the only sound on the line is faint static. Towers makes a frustrated noise, and finally says, "What do you want me to do?"  
"Bring Hayes back here, and don't allow him to make any calls. That's imperative."  
"All right. What are _you_ going to do?"  
"Call Harry."

- 0 –

Harry puts the phone down slowly. It was a mistake to keep Towers out of the loop, he sees now. So Hayes knows, and as soon as he can get to a phone Ilya's life will be over. His thoughts go back to that day in the woods of East Berlin, to the blue-eyed boy he managed to save. Thinking back over his time in the Service, it is one of the decisions he is proudest of. And the consequences of that decision have set the tone for the rest of his career; it showed him that he does not have to sacrifice his humanity completely to be successful. He drags his focus back to the present and considers his options. They can arrest Hayes, but with no clear evidence it will be difficult to hold him, and sooner or later his Russian masters will get to him and he will tell them about Ilya. No, Hayes has to be eliminated, and before he gets a chance to convey what he knows. And that means that he cannot be allowed to leave Towers' office alive. Harry gets up slowly and goes to his safe, from which he takes a gun. He sits back down again and places the Glock in the centre of the desk. Staring at it, he carefully thinks through what he is about to do. The words of his old mentor, Clive McTaggart, come back to him: "Always have a plan, Harry, even if it's a poor one. And always, always, have an escape route."

He tucks the gun in his waistband in the small of his back, and calls Erin into the office. It takes fifteen minutes to bring her into the picture and to issue instructions. Once she has left, he makes the most difficult call of his life.

- 0 –

As he is driven over to the Home Office, the gun presses into his flesh, a constant reminder of what he is about to do. He knows that this is the end – that after this there will be no way back into Thames House and the office he has occupied with such pride and determination. His mind wanders back over his years of service, and lingers on all the dedicated people who have been sacrificed to the cause. Bill, so full of life, so inventive in his disguises, who died such a horrible death. Harry thinks his childhood friend would have enjoyed the sheer drama of what he is about to do. Tom, Zoe and Malcolm, who at least made it out alive. Danny, so heroic and brave in death. Fiona, who was the first warning that one can never truly escape one's past. Poor Colin, whom he should never have put in the field and who must have been so terrified at the end. And Zaf, that cheeky young man whose fate still haunts him – what agony he must have endured. Connie, who betrayed him and killed Ben in the process, but who still had enough self-respect in the end to sacrifice herself to save the innocent. Jo, so vivacious and innocent at the start, before she too was broken and sacrificed. Lucas, whom he was so proud to have brought back from Russia, only to find he never knew the man at all. And of course, Adam and Ros, both so damaged, so honourable, so brilliant at the job. The only two people, apart from Ruth, he allowed himself to get close to, to regard as friends, and whose deaths as a result chipped away at his armour. He wonders, if either of them had still been alive, whether things would have worked out differently.

As they near their destination, his thoughts turn to the woman he loves, who by a strange twist of fate now works in this very building where he is about to commit one last brutal act. He has asked her to remove herself from the offices for half an hour or so, fearful that she will somehow be tainted by events if she were around. She wanted to argue, but perhaps she heard the desperation in his voice and refrained. He hopes to God that she has kept to her word. Since they have become a couple, whenever he thinks about her, warmth spreads through his chest. Most days he can barely believe it, still, that they have found their way to each other. And if his plan doesn't work, he is about to bring an abrupt end to it. The thought makes his heart ache, but he has no choice. He owes Ilya this, owes his country this last throw of the dice. Ruth, he hopes, understands that, and if everything works out as planned, there will be time for them still. The car pulls to the kerb, and he takes one last deep breath before opening the door.

- 0 –

He approaches Security with a purposeful stride.  
"Morning, Gregory," he greets the officer manning the metal detector absently. "Late for a meeting with Towers," he adds as he steps through and the alarm wails.  
"Oh," he says and digs his keys out of his pocket, dangling them at Gregory, who smiles indulgently. Sir Harry has been coming through these doors for years, and he has no reason to suspect that anything is amiss.  
"Good luck, Sir," he says, and waves Harry on.  
Harry walks through the familiar corridors, suddenly painfully aware of every detail. The painting of a tranquil English landscape has been replaced by a red-coated soldier on a horse, sword held aloft, and for a second he pines for those simpler times, when one still knew who the enemy was and where to find them. He enters Towers' offices, his eyes immediately drawn to Ruth's desk. She is not there, and he is eternally grateful for that fact. He nods at Towers' secretary but walks straight past, not waiting for her to announce his arrival. The gun is suddenly in his hand, shielded from view by his body until he steps into the Home Secretary's inner sanctum. There is barely time to register Towers' wary look before his eyes seek out Hayes. Deceiver, traitor, murderer. When he lifts the gun, Hayes blinks slowly. There is surprise on his face as Harry aims between the eyes – he did not expect the English spy to take such bold action, to fall on his sword like this. Harry is vaguely aware of Towers throwing himself behind his desk as he pulls the trigger and watches the bullet hit its target perfectly, tearing apart skin, bone, brain and life. He watches the American crumple, and knows that the life he has known for so long is crumbling away with him.

It is over.

_tbc_


	11. Chapter 10

- 0 –

_Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,  
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron  
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;  
But life, being weary of these worldly bars,  
Never lacks power to dismiss itself._

**Julius Caesar, Act I. Scene III.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_London, Home Office_

For a few seconds it is as though the gunshot has sucked all sound from the room, before it comes rushing back. He hears shouts and running feet, and loud breathing. The last, he realises, is his own. As he drops the gun and kicks it away, he says, "Get up, Home Secretary. You're not in any danger."  
Towers slowly emerges from behind his desk, white as chalk and hands trembling, to find Harry standing in the middle of the room, hands on his head. He glances at the dead man and pales even more, and for a moment Harry worries that he will vomit, but the politician gets himself under control.  
"My God, what have you done?!" he exclaims, stridently. "We are civilised men, living in a civilised country- What?" he demands as Harry smiles cynically.  
"You are labouring under an illusion. Mankind is not now, and never have been civilised. We lie, we cheat, we spite and slander and turn away from the suffering. We betray, we destroy the world in our greed, and we all want our fifteen minutes of fame, no matter if we have to trample over others and show the worst of ourselves to get it." He pauses, then adds, "We are savages dressed in Savile Row suits."  
The two men stand staring at each other, tension heavy and thick in the air.  
"What's happened to you, Harry?" Towers asks eventually, almost plaintively, but before Harry can respond the door bursts open and Security rushes in, guns drawn.  
Towers has the presence of mind to command, "Don't shoot!", and everyone stops, uncertain what to do next. Harry nods imperceptibly, and the Home Secretary points a shaking finger at his once trusted Head of Counter Terrorism.  
"Arrest this man for murder."  
As he is grabbed from behind and forced to his knees, Harry looks towards the door. Ruth stands there, a file clutched in her hands, and stares at the tableau with something akin to revulsion. When her eyes find his, the horror in them breaks his heart. It is one thing to know that a man is capable of dark acts, but it is quite another to see it illustrated so starkly, and he is filled with a sense of desolation.  
"I'm sorry," he tells her as his hands are cuffed behind his back and he is hauled upright.  
She says nothing, but her eyes never leave him until he is out of sight.  
Then she turns to Towers. "We need to talk."

- 0 –

_One hour later  
Thames House_

Erin gets off the phone and turns to Dimitri. "They've taken him to Belmarsh."  
He nods. "I'm on it. Calum?"  
"Already doing it." He never lifts his eyes from the screen as his fingers fly over the keys. Moments later he leans back triumphantly. "Messrs Austin and Donnelly have just been transferred to guard duty at Belmarsh Maximum Security Prison." He regards his colleague with twinkling eyes. "Mind telling us how you came to be on first name terms with two prison guards?"  
Dimitri grins. "A bloke has to do something when he gets too old for the SBS." He sobers as Tariq joins them. "They'll look after him. Are they putting him in Solitary?" he asks the young techie.  
"Yes." He looks crestfallen. "He's not getting out of this one, is he?"  
They're all silent for a moment, before Erin says gently, "No. But if we do our part, at least he'll get to do it on his own terms."  
A voice interrupts from the door, "What can I do to help?"  
They turn to find Ruth there, pale and clutching her oversized handbag. Dimitri smiles broadly at the sight of her, but Erin looks alarmed.  
"Ruth. You're not supposed to be here, to get involved in this. Harry's orders were explicit on this point."  
Ruth shakes her head and smiles sadly. "I know what Harry said. But if you think I'm going to stand idly by whilst he is thrown to the wolves, you don't know me at all. Now, what can I do?"  
Erin regards her, torn between her orders and the conviction in Ruth's face. She thinks about what she would do if the man she loves were in trouble, and knows that doing nothing would kill her, so she smiles slightly. "Help Dimitri and Tariq find proof that will convince the Americans that Hayes was a double agent."  
Calum frowns. "What about me?"  
"You," she says as she claps him on the shoulder, "are going to help me prove Harry innocent of involvement in the bombing in Texas, and make it look like he was about to turn Elena Gavrik."  
He perks up at the thought. "Outstanding."  
She looks over her charges one more time, acutely aware that they cannot overtly stop the destruction of the reputation of a man they all respect and admire, and in some cases even love. But sometimes, she reflects sadly, you have to kill something to set it free.  
"Let's get this right, guys," she says softly. "We owe him that much."  
She gives Ruth a small smile and a nod before she walks off.

- 0 –

_Two days later, late night  
Belmarsh Prison_

Harry lies on the bunk and holds his hand up against the light. The mattress is thin and lumpy, and his kidneys hurt from the working over he received from his guard. He wonders why the Prison Service attracts so many of that ilk – weak men who try to impose themselves on their much more dangerous charges through violence. All he did was ask for a book to read. The fingers silhouetted against the light tremble slightly. There is the finger that pulled the trigger, right next to the one that has traced across Ruth's skin so gently, that has circled her nipples and made them stiffen for his eager mouth. He studies the hand dispassionately, for he has long ago ceased to be surprised by his contradictory nature. The peephole slides open with a clang, and his eyes shift to the door. Otherwise he doesn't move. Someone regards him for a few seconds, but it is not the man he's had the displeasure to meet previously. There is too much intelligence in the gaze, for one thing. The peephole closes and a key turns in the lock. Harry stays where he is. A new guard enters, a powerfully built man, light on his feet. Ex-Army, Harry knows immediately. They study each other wordlessly, before the guard nods and says, "Dimitri sends his regards." And then, louder, "On your feet. Shower time."  
Harry sits up gingerly, surprised but incredibly grateful to his team. As they walk along the corridor, the guard murmurs quietly, "We have your back now. You'll be all right."  
Embarrassingly, Harry feels tears spring to his eyes, as he for the first time allows the reality of the situation to sink in. He is in jail, where he has many enemies and nowhere to hide, and it is good to know that there will at least be a friendly face or two as well. He says gruffly, "Thank you."  
When they get to the showers, he is surprised to note they are the only ones there. He looks at his guard questioningly.  
"Safety reasons," the man explains, with a twinkle in his eye, before taking up station at the door, his back to Harry. So, for the first time in two days, Harry gets to shower without enduring the lascivious looks of his fellow prisoners. It is a small thing, but it lifts his spirits immeasurably.

- 0 –

_Next morning  
Marriott Hotel, Grosvenor Square_

Dimitri stands in front of the hotel, hands on hips, and looks up and down the street. By the time MI5 gained access to Hayes' room, the CIA had already removed everything of interest. Nonetheless, they went over it painstakingly, but without success. "Suggestions?" he asks.  
Back on the Grid, Tariq and Ruth look at each other helplessly. "CCTV is useless; the CIA blocks everything in a half-mile radius around Grosvenor Square," the techie says glumly.  
Ruth bites down her frustration. "They must have missed something. They always do," she says. "Pull up that map of the Square again, Tariq."  
Dimitri looks around once more, then randomly wanders off to his right. "Okay, Hayes was a spy, right?"  
"Yes," Ruth says, frowning. Where is he going with this?  
"We know he left the hotel the night of the shooting and the night before that. On both occasions he didn't take a taxi, but walked."  
"So?" Tariq says.  
"So, it's likely he was off to meet someone on that first night. He doesn't want to take a cab and have a cabbie who can remember him. That means someone either picked him up, or the meeting was close by."  
Ruth immediately picks up on his train of thought. "And spies like to meet in places where people can come and go without inviting unwelcome questions." She once again scans the buildings around the Square, this time looking with a different eye. If Hayes wanted to meet with Elena, where could they have done so without attracting attention? Which of the buildings in the vicinity would have been open to the public late at night? And then she sees it.  
"The Ukrainian Catholic church."

- 0 –

Dimitri walks into the church, not really sure what he is looking for. There are a few older women scattered around kneeling in pews or sitting quietly towards the front, staring at the large Christ figure on the cross above the altar. A young man lethargically sweeps the floor to his left. He doesn't even glance up at Dimitri's entrance. The spook looks around, scanning every dark corner for evidence of surveillance. There is none that is obvious to the casual observer, so he moves along the side to the front. One of the women looks at him curiously, and he suspects that they don't get many young people in here anymore. As he moves towards the Ladies' Chapel, he notices it – a tiny surveillance camera tucked into a dark nook of the roof. His heart lifts.

- 0 –

_Same day, afternoon  
Belmarsh prison_

He is sitting at the small table in his cell, reading the Shakespeare that his friendly guard, Donnelly, brought him this morning, when the peephole slides open again.  
"Your lawyer's here," Donnelly announces before the key scrapes in the lock.  
Harry frowns; he specifically declared that he does not want a lawyer.  
The door swings open to reveal a fresh faced young man that looks about twenty years old, and Harry's irritation increases.  
"Sir Harry," the young man says, advancing with an outstretched hand. "This is a great honour."  
Harry does not move. "Who are you?" he asks coldly.  
"Ryan Montgomery."  
"I did not ask for a lawyer," Harry points out.  
"I know, but the Service feels that you should have one."  
Harry's eyes narrow. "So they send a whelp," he says contemptuously.  
The young man's eyebrows raise a fraction, but he does not seem particularly offended. "Ah well, I may be a whelp, but I'm here to help," he quips, smirking at his own joke.  
Harry remains impervious. He watches the lawyer coolly for a few seconds, before he says, "And the difference between a wit and a twit is similarly only one tiny letter. I'll give you a hint – it rhymes with a beverage beloved throughout the Realm."  
Montgomery throws his head back and laughs. "You really are a grumpy old sod," he says cheerfully. "They told me you'd be."  
"'They'?" Harry asks carefully.  
Montgomery nods. "The people who care about you."  
He watches as Harry's mask slips for a second, can see the older man is moved by the gesture, so he continues, "And they sent me because I care about you too."  
Harry frowns, tilts his head questioningly. "I don't even know you."  
"No, but I know you, by reputation. Clive McTaggart was my godfather."

He smiles gently as Harry blinks in surprise. "Now, let's talk about your defence."  
Still somewhat thrown by the previous revelation, Harry reiterates absently, "I don't want a defence. I shot him, I'm guilty."  
There is a pause before Montgomery says, "Oh. Well. That's that then." He looks at his watch. "We still have forty minutes left though, so what shall we talk about?" He looks around the spartan cell, and his eye falls on the volume of Shakespeare. "I actually know my Classics, so how about that?" He quotes in a portentous tone: "'Two households, both alike in dignity.' Although, I can't imagine you being a Romeo and Juliet kind of bloke. No, I'd imagine a bit of political intrigue is more up your alley. Maybe some Macbeth? 'Out, damned spot!'"  
"Actually I prefer Julius Caesar," Harry retorts, still grumpy, but beginning to enjoy the company despite himself.  
"Really?" Montgomery says, interested. "I don't think it's too many people's favourite. Why is it yours?"  
"Because it doesn't have the hocus-pocus of witches and spells and what-not of many of the others. And it's closest to modern day politics. Caesar, a good leader but arrogant, and perhaps destined for greatness – but will he remain a good leader or be corrupted by the power? You have a few people who decide he will be and kill him before we have a chance to find out, in the process persuading the gullible moral man, Brutus, into treachery. You have the man that can use words as a weapon, Mark Anthony, who can and does talk the masses into revolting against the conspirators. And eventually, you have the moral man so wracked by guilt that he falls on his own sword."  
Montgomery watches him knowingly. "Is that the part you identify most with?"  
"No," Harry says promptly. "I identify with the soothsayer who warns Caesar about the Ides of March, but is impudently ignored."

Montgomery smiles. "Of course you do," he responds drily, causing Harry to smile as well, somewhat embarrassed. The young man turns serious as he pleads, "Let me help you, sir. Please."  
Harry sighs deeply. "I'm sorry, Mr Montgomery. I have to be found guilty. It's a matter of national security."  
The lawyer opens his mouth, then closes it again as he tries to make sense of what the spook has said. Harry watches him sympathetically.  
"It's better for your fledgling career that you are not associated-" he begins, but Montgomery overrides him.  
"There is more than one way to plead guilty," he says, eyes bright and excited.  
Harry frowns. "Explain."  
Young Montgomery points at the Shakespeare. "We do a Mark Anthony, and pretend to praise Hayes when in fact we intend to cast doubt on his character. You know, 'The noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious, and Brutus is an honourable man.'"  
When Harry doesn't respond, he presses on. "We set Hayes as Noble Brutus, who cast aspersions on your character, and if he said it, it must be true, because he was, after all, an honourable man, not a traitorous lunatic. Come on, sir, at the very least it will be fun."  
Harry quirks an eyebrow, but can't keep the amusement out of his expression. "Call me Harry," he says, and the young man smiles.

- 0 –

_Next day  
MI5 safehouse, outskirts of London_

Jim Coaver approaches the house on foot. It sits, unassumingly, on a quiet street, looking for all the world like a normal house. As he walks towards it, he wonders what the Brits want with him. Hell, he's not even sure that this is official; it was Ruth Evershed that requested the meeting, after all. Perhaps she is acting in a personal capacity – he's heard the rumours about her and Harry. In the end his curiosity won out over caution, and he agreed to come. He wants to know what the fuck is going on, why Harry felt the need to dispatch Hayes so publicly. There is no sign of life as he approaches the front door, but he is well aware that he is being observed. He steps up to the front door boldly and rings the bell, and the door immediately opens to a plainly dressed woman in her fifties. She invites him in and directs him to the back of the house, where a group of people await him in the sitting room.  
A dark-haired woman steps forward. "Do you know who I am?" she asks, and he nods.  
"You're Ruth Evershed."  
She smiles, but it is a tense smile. "Good. Please take a seat, Mr Coaver. We have something to show you."  
For the first time he notices the small screen and the projector. He sits, and the screen flickers to life. The man operating it (Dimitri somebody, he vaguely recalls) explains, "This is footage from CCTV inside the Ukrainian Catholic cathedral on Grosvenor Square."  
"But we block all CCTV in that area," Jim immediately objects.  
"Not this one," Ruth says in a clipped tone, "because it is one of your own."  
Jim looks at them, confused, so Dimitri happily explains, "The CIA bugged that church because they thought the Russians might use it to spy on Grosvenor Square. Obviously, they used a frequency outside the range that they routinely block. And then they forgot about it."  
Jim doesn't bother to argue further. He knows that it is exactly the kind of thing the CIA would do. And every intelligence officer knows that it is usually the little things that trip up an operation. So he merely nods in acknowledgement, and sits back to watch the footage.

A man appears, casually glances around, and enters the Ladies' Chapel. There is no doubt that the man is Stanley Hayes. The footage fast forwards through ten minutes in which nothing happens, before a woman appears. Elena Gavrik doesn't hesitate, but walks straight into the chapel. Some time later they both come out and move to a door a little way down the passage, which Elena unlocks. Before the door fully closes behind them, they are locked in a passionate embrace. Dimitri pauses the image and Jim stares at the image of his dead colleague wordlessly, his heart sinking into his shoes. After a long silence he says, "So he has his tongue down her throat. Doesn't prove anything. He could be trying to recruit her," his gaze shifts to Ruth, "the same way Harry did."  
The comment is meant to unsettle her, but she doesn't blink. He is beginning to grasp what Harry sees in her.  
"We thought you'd say that," she says evenly, "so we searched that church more meticulously."  
Dimitri takes over. "And guess what we found? An audio recorder, cleverly concealed in the Virgin Mary's bosom."

Jim listens to the damning conversation grimly; it leaves no doubt as to Hayes' treachery. When Harry mooted the possibility of a Russian mole in the CIA earlier, Jim knew in his gut that the British spook was right – it explains everything that happened in Berlin, and all the failed operations against Russia since. But he has held onto a glimmer of hope that there may be another explanation, that they have not all been duped for so many years. And he also now understands Hayes' attempt to frame Harry for the bombing. Harry is the one man who knew for sure that it was not his fault that the Berlin network was rolled up, and as a result posed the biggest threat. Jim rubs a weary hand across his face. "What are you going to do with this information?"  
Ruth looks down for a second, then says, "Nothing."  
"What?" Jim blurts, surprised. "But you could get Hal off with this evidence."  
"I know," she snaps, a hint of anguish seeping through. "But we don't want the Russians to know that we know." Her gaze is unwavering. "Harry has to be crucified in the eyes of the world."  
Stunned, Jim sits back, observing his hosts carefully as he turns everything over in his mind. His discussion with Harry in the car park comes back to him, and he realises what the Brits are doing. "To protect the real Russian asset," he says quietly. "Hal is falling on his sword to protect the asset. Jesus."  
Ruth ignores the comment. "We need your help to pull it off, though."  
"Name it," the American says immediately.  
"The US must demand that Harry be extradited to stand trial, for both Hayes' murder and the earlier bombing. And the CIA must project Hayes as the big hero, a model and loyal intelligence officer. Only one or two people can know the truth."  
Jim nods.  
"The CIA will come out of this smelling like roses, while Harry… Harry will be the traitor, the man that lost his way and killed Hayes to save himself."  
She blinks, and for a split-second he can see everything she feels for Harry. "What happens once he's extradited?" he asks gently.  
"You agree to let him disappear quietly, and you make sure that the CIA lets him be."  
There is no need for Jim to think about it. "Deal," he says as he stands and holds out his hand to Ruth.

- 0 –

_Three months later, late night  
Belmarsh prison_

It is dark, but the prison never truly comes to rest. Harry has got used to its nocturnal sounds; the tinny sound of the guards' television, the low murmur and steady footsteps of the patrolling men, the occasional clang of a cell door. He hates it, craves the soothing sounds of good music. It is the little things he miss most – his music, the burn of good Scotch in his throat and a long soak in the bath after a stressful day, the blue of her eyes when he looks into them for the first time each morning. For three months, as the British legal system has taken its meandering course, the only people he's had contact with are the guards and his young lawyer. He knows this is as much for his own protection as it is punishment, and accepts it without complaint. It all ends tomorrow, hopefully. He will have his day in court, and if all goes to plan, he will be extradited and allowed to disappear quietly. If not, he will either spend the rest of his life in this cell, or be left to the mercy of a vengeful CIA. For once in his life his fate is completely in the hands of others, and it discomfits him. He hates feeling helpless. The only ray of light is that one of those people is the person he trusts most.

Ruth.

_tbc_


	12. Chapter 11

- 0 –

_Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!  
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.  
The evil that men do lives after them,  
The good is oft interred with their bones;  
So let it be with Caesar._

**Julius Caesar, Act III. Scene II.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_Next day  
Court Two, London_

It is possible to hear a pin drop. Harry has just uttered the word 'guilty' in a clear, firm voice, and time seems to slow down. Into this silence Ryan Montgomery's voice sounds confidently. "My lord, the Defence would like an opportunity to argue against extradition to the US."  
An excited murmur goes round the courtroom at this unexpected development and the Prosecutor gets to her feet.  
"I don't see why the Court should waste its time, my lord," she counters. "The defendant admits to killing an American citizen in cold blood-"  
"I think we can do without the embellishments, m'lord," Montgomery interjects drily. "My learned colleague has no knowledge of the temperature of my client's blood at the time."  
This raises a snicker from the audience, and the Prosecutor glares.  
Judge Sinclair holds up a hand and the court settles down again. "On what grounds, Counsel?" He is beginning to rapidly change his mind about the young lawyer.  
"On the grounds that extradition will put my client's life in danger. The victim was a respected member of the CIA, and there are many people in that organisation who would like to avenge his death. Extradition will deliver Sir Harry right into those people's hands, my lord."  
The Prosecutor begins to sputter an objection, but a withering glance from the judge silences her. He stares at Harry thoughtfully, tapping his finger lightly on the bench.  
"I'll allow it," he eventually decides, and an even louder murmur reverberates around the room.  
Ryan takes a deep breath and catches Harry's eye, who gives him a slight smile.  
"The Defence calls James Coaver to the stand," Ryan states loudly.  
For a moment no-one moves, and then Jim stands slowly and moves forward. Every single eye in the room is riveted on him as he walks to the witness stand.

Once he is sworn in, Ryan observes him momentarily before he begins. "Mr Coaver, you knew the victim well?"  
"Sure," Jim says. "He was a legend in the company."  
"The 'company'?" the judge queries.  
"The CIA," Jim clarifies.  
"How so?" Ryan asks, and listens attentively as Jim provides a brief overview of Stanley Hayes' achievements.  
"Certainly impressive," he comments once Jim has finished. "A man like that was probably very popular."  
"…He was," Jim agrees reluctantly.  
Ryan gives the judge a meaningful look before he continues. "And you came to London with him to accuse my client of aiding and abetting in a terror attack on US soil, did you not?"  
Jim stares at him, speechless. "That's classified!" he blurts after a few seconds.  
"Not in this courtroom, Mr Coaver. Answer the question, please," the judge orders.  
Jim looks towards Harry apologetically. "Yeah. Stan-"  
"The victim," Ryan interjects helpfully.  
"-said he had strong evidence that Hal, er, Sir Harry, was involved in the Texas bombing."  
"He showed you this evidence?"  
"…No. He said he would do so once we've spoken to Harry."  
Ryan stares at him. "I see," he says slowly. "So the CIA rushed a high level delegation to Britain to accuse an eminent and respected member of the British Security Services on the say-so of this man. Without any evidence. Because he was a legend." He turns to the judge. "I'd say there is no stronger evidence of the standing of the victim in the CIA, my lord. We cannot put my client's life in these people's hands."  
"Oh come on," Jim snaps, feathers ruffled. "We're not savages. Hal will be perfectly safe."  
"Oh really," Ryan retorts. "What about all those men, suspected of being terrorists, that simply disappeared without any due process, never to be seen again? That we all know are being held somewhere and horribly tortured?"  
"This is different," Jim says defensively.  
Ryan smiles sardonically. "Is it? What did the victim accuse Sir Harry of again?"  
The court is quiet. Jim looks at Harry, who stares at him impassively. He has nothing to say in response.  
"Nothing further, my lord," Ryan says and sits down.

From her vantage point in the gallery Ruth can only see Harry's profile. The cheekbone under the skin is more prominent than she remembers; he has lost weight in prison. The lines in his brow and around his mouth are etched a little deeper, too; the events of the last year have clearly taken its toll on him. She longs to touch him, to smooth her fingers over those lines, to kiss that sensual mouth. She is unspeakably proud of him, of all that he has achieved, and she hopes that he knows. Ilya Gavrik, now handled by Dimitri, has begun to report, and the information is of the highest quality. For the first time in years, Britain knows exactly what is going on in the highest circles in Russia. She wonders how many people in this court room is aware that the man they are persecuting managed to recruit three of the most valuable sources MI5 has ever had – in the IRA during the height of the troubles in Northern Ireland, the trade unions during the strikes in the eighties, and now a man who is a confidant of the Russian president. Or that he managed to establish dialogue with a prominent figure in the terrorist movement, Mohamed Khordad, before the Americans stomped all over that with their clumsy boots. She fights the urge to stand up and tell them. Harry's freedom depends on people not knowing.

She watches as Jim leaves the witness stand and moves back to his seat. His eyes stay on Harry, filled with remorse and what she believes is admiration. Jim has played his role well, as has young Ryan; they have managed to establish just a hint of doubt as to what is really going on without giving the judge enough to deny the extradition order. Or at least she hopes so. Erin and Calum has managed to prove beyond any doubt that Harry was not involved in the Texas bombing, and Jim has used the information to persuade his superiors to let Harry slip away quietly. As for the rest of the world, and the Russians in particular, they will have to be convinced that Harry's disappearance is of a more permanent nature. All is in place, and with the help of Dimitri's Navy contacts and some old friends, they will pull it off. And they can use Gavrik to feed the Russians misinformation. Few things have been more important to her than this operation. It may be the last thing she ever gets to do for him, and it will be the most significant. She will get to give him peace, and a chance at a normal life. A life that is not filled with death and betrayal, and no-one deserves it more. Her eyes trace his face once again, noting the pursed lips and bunched jaw muscles. He is nervous, and she knows how he feels. So much rests on the judge's decision.

Marshall Sinclair takes his time to mull over the American spy's testimony, while the court waits and fidgets. His mind goes back to the phone call he received from William Towers when he'd drawn this case, explaining to him that it is imperative for US/UK relations that Harry Pearce be extradited if found guilty. He is not a man easily swayed by political pressure, but most of the wiggle room has been taken out of his hands by the defendant's guilty plea. He clears his throat.  
"The defence has given some compelling reasons to deny extradition," he announces, looking at the Prosecutor. "What is the Prosecution's counter-argument?"  
She clambers to her feet and thinks for a moment. "Only this, my lord: The accused holds a senior and sensitive position in the Security Service, and knows a great many things that this government does not want to be made public. Because of this, they have gone to great lengths to ensure that the accused will be constantly monitored whilst in American hands, to ensure that their questioning only pertains to the death of Mr Hayes. We have included an affidavit from the Home Secretary to indicate such in our evidence. I don't see how that will leave any room for foul play."  
The judge's heart sinks. "Comments, Mr Montgomery?"  
Ryan stands. "Far be it from me to question the word of a British politician, my lord," he murmurs, eliciting a tiny smirk from his client and outright guffaws from the gallery.  
The judge manages to keep a straight face, and his expression turns deadly serious as he looks towards the accused.  
Ryan touches Harry's shoulder and he stands, looking at the judge resignedly.  
Judge Sinclair lets the silence stretch out, before he states, not without sympathy, "Sir Harry Pearce, the court finds you guilty of the murder of the American citizen, Stanley Hayes, and grants the extradition request from the United States of America."  
He raps his gavel as an excited hubbub breaks out, and briskly makes his way off the bench and out of the court.  
Harry manages to remain expressionless as a court officer steps forward, but he can't help but lift his eyes to Ruth as he is led from the courtroom. He thinks he sees tears in her eyes, but it is hard to tell from a distance, and he can only hope that she reads his love for her in his one final time. He keeps his gaze locked with hers until it is no longer possible, wondering if this is the last time he will ever get to look into those stormy blue eyes.

- 0 –

_Same day, late night  
Belmarsh prison, London_

Harry spends his last night on British soil in the cell that has become his home for the last three months. Although 'home' may be stretching it. He lies on the thin mattress, his hands folded over his stomach, contemplating all that has happened. The Americans informed him that he will be flown out at daybreak tomorrow, but gave no indication whether they will stick to the agreement to let him disappear quietly. He's not sure what Ruth and the team has put in place; whether they were able to prove his innocence in the bombing, or found proof of Hayes' treachery. His fate is, for once, totally in the hands of others, and there is nothing he can do. He is unexpectedly fatalistic about that, perhaps because it is only his own fate that hangs in the balance, and not that of the nation or those of innocent civilians. He does experience periodic anxiety about his absence from the Grid, worrying that something bad will happen, something that he would have been able to stop. No matter how many times he tells himself that he is not the only capable intelligence officer in England, he can't convince himself that anyone else is as uniquely suited to the work as he is. He sighs; it is moot now. He will never again set foot in Thames House, or the Home Office. And deep down he knows that it is time to step out of the breach, time to let someone else stand on the wall. He is dangerously close to burning out, and perhaps it is better that he goes in this way, as a final sacrifice to secure the safe future of his beloved Realm, than by burning out and making a fatal mistake. Holding on to that thought, he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift back to the night, not so long ago, when Ruth appeared on his doorstep and gave him a glimpse of true happiness, of bliss.

_He should be surprised that it feels so natural to lead her to his bedroom, but somehow he's not. All the time that they have known each other, and secretly and not-so-secretly loved each other, has built to this moment. It seems inevitable, and looking back over the last few years he thinks it may have been inevitable almost from the start. He looks into her eyes, and sees his own certainty, his own want, reflected back at him, and his heart flips and settles back in its place as he tightens his grip on her hand. She smiles, a flush slowly creeping up her neck, and he can see her pulse racing in her throat. Unable to help himself, he stops walking and leans in to kiss that spot, to suck at it until she moans, the sound vibrating against his tongue. He laves the skin, belatedly aware that he has backed her against the wall and is pressed against her. He is rapidly hardening against her hip, a development she cannot be unaware of, and he feels a momentary flash of embarrassment. It evaporates the moment he lifts his head and looks at her face, though. Her head is thrown back to give him better access to her neck, her lips parted and her breath coming in quick gasps. She is just as aroused as he is, and there is not a shred of doubt or caution in her expression. She has made her decision; she wants this, wants to be here, with him, against him, around him. He almost staggers at the realisation. She will not change her mind again. She has committed to him, to them, heart, body and soul. It is humbling, and he feels unworthy of it until her hand finds his hip and draws him flush against her, at the same time raising herself onto tiptoes to kiss him. The movement makes his erection slip into the fold of her hip, closer to the junction of her legs, and he can feel her heat through their layers of clothes. When her tongue enters his mouth at the same time, he can't help but thrust against her, and the movement causes delicious tremors to shoot up his shaft. Ruth gasps into the kiss at the sensation and winds both arms around his neck, using it to leverage herself even higher. He helps her by cupping her buttocks and lifting, until he nestles snugly between her legs. She does something with her hips that increases the friction between them tenfold and makes his head swim, and the last of his self-control dissolves in a sea of lust, love and base desire. _

_He somehow steers them the last few feet into his bedroom without detaching his mouth from hers, and they only separate fractionally once her legs bump against the side of the bed. He slaps blindly at the light switch, not wanting to miss the slightest shift in her expression, and is eternally grateful that he did so when the sudden flood of light illuminates her wanton appearance. She looks so alive, so happy, so eager, that he crushes her to him again and continues the assault on her lips and neck with abandon. One hand slides down her thigh and hikes up her skirt, and then slides between her legs and cups her. She mutters something that could have been his name, before she attacks his shirt and removes it in a blur of frenzied movement. The years of pent-up yearning has finally caught up with them both, and the desire sweeping through them shatters any rational thought. He's pretty sure that not even a gun to the head could persuade either of them to stop at this point. They rid each other of their clothes in a tangle of hands, taking a moment to step back and admire the naked forms exposed, before he lowers her onto the bed and spreads her legs unceremoniously. She clutches onto his shoulders and pulls him on top of her, and they both shudder as his hardness bumps against her centre in their haste. He pulls back slightly and she helps guide him, the brush of her fingers against his shaft sending shivers down his spine. And then he is sliding into her, and she is tight and hot and slick around him._  
"_Ruth," he gasps, fighting the urge to thrust as hard and as deep as he can, and she sees. Her hands frame his face and she huffs a slight laugh, a mere escape of breath that washes over his lips, and he knows she is just as overwhelmed by the moment as he is. She pulls his head down and whispers against his mouth, "Let go, Harry," before she kisses him hungrily.  
So he does. He lets go, and drives himself into her over and over again. She spurs him on, meets him thrust for thrust, and he delights in every little sound of ecstasy he elicits from her. It is not gentle, their first coupling, but it is exquisite. It is primal and uninhibited and intoxicating, because it is built on love. It is them, Harry and Ruth, working together seamlessly, striving towards a common goal, complementing each other's strengths and compensating for each other's weaknesses. And it is bloody good. He turns them slightly and plants a foot on the floor for more leverage, then straightens his arms and lifts himself above her, winning a low moan of approval from her as the angle lets him find a deeper penetration. He thrusts hard, not holding anything back, causing her breasts to bounce slightly with each jolt. He has never seen anything more erotic, feeling himself harden even more in response. Their eyes lock and hold as they fall into each other irrevocably, and he sees the moment her orgasm begins to wash over her in the dilation of her pupils. Her mouth opens in a silent scream and he keeps on thrusting determinedly, ignoring the shaking of his legs as his own release rapidly approaches, eager to prolong her climax for as long as possible. He screws his eyes shut to concentrate on lasting as long as he can, but Ruth has other plans. She scrapes her nails over his sensitive nipples, and the unexpected sensation sends him over the edge. His hips buckle and he comes long and hard, muttering her name as he does so. When he collapses next to her, boneless, in the aftermath, she gathers him to her and murmurs senseless words of love in his ear, rubbing her hand up and down his sweat-slicked back until they both sink into exhausted, sated slumber._

Harry blinks against the sudden burning sensation in his eyes. He is unspeakably grateful for that night, for the memories it has provided that has seen him through many a dark hour of despair. At this moment he will give anything to see her one more time, to hold her in his arms and kiss her lips. He has no idea whether she intends to find him, once the dust has settled. Supposing, of course, that the Americans keep their word and everything works out as it should. He will not ask her to give up her life for him again, but knows that he will always be on the lookout for her, wherever he may find himself at the end of it all. He sighs again, and watches the first light of day begin to seep through the high slit window. They will come for him soon, so he gets up and dresses, then sits on the edge of the bed to wait.

- 0 –

_Daybreak  
Brize Norton airfield_

Harry sits in the small waiting area, a big Marine at the door ensuring that he doesn't go anywhere. Through the window he can see the CIA-owned Lear Jet being readied. He eyes the plate on the table in front of him morosely; not even three months of enduring prison food have convinced him that the Americans' idea of breakfast – a donut – is an acceptable one. His contemplation of the round confectionary is interrupted by approaching footsteps, and he looks up to see his old friend Jim approaching. In his hand he has a paper bag from which a delicious smell of bacon is emanating. Jim places the bag in front of Harry with a smile. "Here you go, buddy. I thought you might enjoy a good old bacon roll. I remember how you loved them back in Berlin."  
Harry is already opening it and sniffing appreciatively at the aroma. "Thanks, Jim. Come to see me off?" he enquires before he takes a big bite.  
"No. I will be escorting you to the US, along with a representative from your government. Just to make sure some overzealous Marine doesn't decide to practice his interrogation skills on you on the flight over."  
Harry's chewing slows as he processes the news. He looks into Jim's eyes, seeking confirmation of his suspicions. Jim's next words provide it.  
"Miss Evershed will have my balls if anything happens to you," he says softly, meaningfully.  
Harry nods, flooded with relief, but before he can respond, Jim is called away to receive the UK representative.

For the next few minutes Harry devotes his full attention to the bacon roll. He savours every mouthful, making it last. A commotion at the door draws his attention, and he looks up to be met with the sight of William Towers confronting the tall Marine at the door. He only comes up to the man's chest, but he is imperiously telling the young man to remember that he is still on British soil and therefore subject to British regulations. Whilst he is occupying the man, Ruth slips past behind them and makes a beeline for Harry. He barely has time to get to his feet before she is there and steps into his arms.

He hugs her to him, revelling in her comforting smell, her soft curves pressed against him.  
"Ruth," he says hoarsely, turning his head to press his lips to her temple.  
She pulls back and her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "You didn't think I'd let you go without saying goodbye, did you?" she asks, a slight tremble in her voice.  
He can't speak, so he weaves his fingers through her hair and kisses her, losing himself in the heat of her mouth, the softness of her lips; imprinting the taste of her on his senses for the long lonely months to come.  
Their embrace is interrupted by the Marine, who says sharply, "Hey!"  
Harry pulls back, and stares into her eyes, his thumbs tracing gently over her cheekbones. "You take good care, yes?" he says softly, and she nods.  
"You too." As the Marine strides over purposefully, she whispers hurriedly, "I'll find you, Harry. I will."

And then everything is happening very fast. Towers shakes his hand, and he is led away by the Marine. He looks back at Ruth for as long as he can, until a door is closed between them, shutting her from his sight. When at last he looks ahead, Jim is standing next to the plane's steps, waiting. And next to him, a very familiar figure, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes, watches Harry steadily. Jim nods at the Marine and says, "We'll take it from here. Hal, this is the representative from your government. You have any complaints about your treatment, you speak to him."  
The man smiles and stretches out a hand. "At your service," he says, with a twinkle in his eye.  
Harry grasps the hand and smiles back at Tom Quinn, and for the first time truly believes that everything will be all right.

- 0 -

_Four hours later_

The storm over the Atlantic develops quite suddenly and unexpectedly, making it impossible for the plane to avoid it. Air traffic control loses contact ten minutes after the pilot radios that they are caught up in it, but rescue efforts are delayed for six hours while they wait for the worst of the storm to pass. It takes a spotter plane another two hours to find signs of the wreckage, and when a Navy rescue helicopter finally reaches the area it finds only two survivors: the pilot and Jim Coaver.

An ashen-faced Home Secretary brings the news to the Grid, and spontaneously envelops Ruth in a hug. "I'm so very sorry, Ruth," he says, his voice shaking with emotion.  
Over his shoulder, her eyes meet Dimitri's, who looks back with sad resignation.

_tbc_


	13. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

- 0 –

_If it be aught toward the general good,  
Set honour in one eye and death i' the other  
And I will look on both indifferently.  
For let the gods so speed me as I love  
The name of honour more than I fear death._

**Julius Caesar, Act I. Scene II.  
- William Shakespeare**

- 0 –

_Fifteen months later  
Bridgetown, Barbados_

Ruth carefully guides the little car through the tourist throngs of Carlisle Bay. It is mid-morning on a Saturday in December, the sun is out and it seems the whole island has come to its most famous tourist spot. She, however, does not stop but continues on past the bay, following a twisting narrow road that heads up the hill on the southern side. On the other side of the hill nestles a small village, its small bay and beach not nearly as glamorous as its more famous neighbour. There are no tourists thronging the streets here; it is quiet, apart from the boisterous sounds accompanying a spirited game of street-cricket. She finds a parking spot under a tree, hopefully far enough from the game to spare her windshield, and walks towards the tiny beach. A couple of modest sailing yachts bob on the gentle swell, and she removes her shoes and strolls along the beach. She has not felt sand between her toes since Cyprus, and she digs them into the white grains with relish. At the other end of the beach is her destination, but she needs a moment to compose herself, to gather her courage.

Fifteen months. A year and three months since she said goodbye to Harry, and promised that she would find him. Four hundred and fifty six days since they faked the plane crash with the help of the CIA. To most of the world he is dead, resting somewhere in the Atlantic in a cold, watery grave.  
_No less than he deserved_, she heard people say more than once in the aftermath. _Murderer, traitor. Another example of an intelligence officer cracking spectacularly under the strain_.  
And each time she wanted to retort, _You're wrong. He has given everything for this country, including his reputation_. But she said nothing, and went back to work for the Home Secretary for a year and one month, until Towers was made the sacrificial lamb for a political scandal that he had nothing to do with. He offered her a job as his personal assistant in the private sector, but she declined.  
_Time for a change_, she'd said with a small, sad smile, before going home and packing her bags. She travelled alone for a month, criss-crossing Europe, and slowly, carefully, began her search. Each day a different internet café in a different city, following Malcolm's instructions to the letter to ensure that no-one would be able to trace her activities. It took her two weeks to find it.

Ruth lifts her eyes to the small establishment at the end of the beach.  
_Harry's Hole_, a faded sign proudly proclaims. It is little more than a bar, a kitchen and a palm-frond roof, with chairs and tables scattered across the sand. A tall black man with grey hair polishes the bar as he exchanges jokes with two old men sitting at one of the tables, drinking coffee. Their laughter drifts across the sand towards her, and she takes a deep breath, quelling the doubt that regularly rears its head. It _has_ to be this place.

As she approaches, the man behind the bar straightens up. The two men at the table watch her curiously; presumably thinking that she is a tourist who has lost her way.  
"Good morning," she greets, unable to hold the nervousness out of her voice.  
"Good morning," the barman says in a deep baritone that easily carries around the open-aired establishment. "What'll it be?"  
"Oh, er… Coffee please," Ruth says, flustered.  
The tall man surveys her curiously before he turns away to pour the coffee.  
"I'm actually looking for someone," Ruth announces to his back. "…Harry. I'm looking for Harry."  
He turns back and places the coffee in front of her, before spreading his arms and flashing her a brilliant smile. "You've found him."  
She stares at him as the bottom slowly falls out of her world. "You're the Harry of Harry's Hole?" she asks faintly, gripping the bar with white knuckles.  
He nods, concern etched on his face. "Yes. Have been since 1982. Are you all right?"  
She doesn't hear him. Her eyes fill with tears, and she has to fight to swallow down the emotion. She has got it wrong; her Harry is not here, and suddenly she doesn't know where to go, what to do. What if she never finds him? What if that day at Brize Norton is the last time she'll ever see him? She has always had a sneaky suspicion that she and Harry aren't meant to be; that they have forfeited the chance of a normal life because of all the things they've done in the name of their country. All those dreams she has allowed herself to have, of a home and a life with the man she loves…  
"We were never meant to have those things," she mumbles, making Harry the barman frown in confusion.  
"Elsie!" he calls over his shoulder, thinking that a woman's touch may be needed here – he has never been any good at handling upset females.  
His wife steps from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. When she sees the woman seated at the bar, head bowed over her cup of coffee, she draws in a sharp breath. "Oh my God, it's her!"

It takes a few moments for the words to register through Ruth's distress, but when they do, she stiffens and looks up, alarmed. Years as a spook have made her loath to focus any sort of attention on herself, and to be recognised like this normally spells trouble.  
"What did you say?" she asks as the other woman covers her cheeks with both hands and almost jigs on the spot. Harry the barman is studying Ruth closely now, and something seems to click for him as he suddenly beams at her.  
"Ohhh!" he exclaims. "You be looking for _White_ Harry."  
Ruth looks between him and his wife uncertainly. Could she be in the right place after all? Could her Harry be the 'white Harry' referred to? That may explain why the woman recognises her, she thinks with a sudden surge of hope.  
Elsie notices her uncertainty and explains, "We call him White Harry to prevent confusion." Then she adds, "He showed us your picture, and said you might look for him here."  
Ruth processes this information. "You know him well, then?" she asks cautiously.  
The other Harry nods. "Oh, yes. He's been coming here for years. Since '83. His job with the UN brought him here two or three times a year, and he bought the house up on the hill after his first few visits, saying he'll retire here one day. And now he has."

So he's had an exit plan in place almost from the start of his career in MI5, Ruth realises. Many intelligence officers have one, instinctively realising that in their profession it is essential. And Harry, it seems, has been wilier than most in creating his. She knows from experience that when they are looking for a disappeared officer, they always look for a person that suddenly appears in a community, or the renting or buying of property within the time-frame of the disappearance. Harry, however, has managed to establish himself here over many years, so his appearance won't raise any flags. She can't help but smile, certain now that 'white Harry' is her Harry.  
"So I'll find him at his house?" she enquires, trying to contain her excitement.  
"He hasn't taken his boat out today," the other Harry says, gesturing behind her to one of the small sailing yachts anchored in the bay. "So he'll either be at the house or at the Disaster Management Office."  
He sees her confusion at this last bit of information, and misinterprets. "I told him running that place is not a nine-to-five job and not suitable for a man who's supposed to be retired, but he said that he can't just sit at home. And he's damn good at it – he saved many lives with his careful planning and preparation during the last hurricane season."  
Ruth realises that the man thinks she may disapprove of Harry taking the position, so she hastily clarifies, "It's good that he has found something worthwhile to occupy his time. He's never been the type to sit at home; he'll probably become thoroughly miserable if he's ever forced to do so." It is said with a fond smile, and she means every word – she truly can't imagine Harry not serving his community in some way.  
"He said you may be joining him at the office," Elsie adds, and Ruth nods without hesitation. "I'd like that," she confirms.

As Barman Harry provides directions to the house – follow the road south and up the hill, and it's the last house at the end of the road – one of the old men at the table pipes up.  
"It's Saturday morning; White Harry'll be at the local cricket club. His youngsters are playing today."  
"I'm sorry?" Ruth blurts, unsure what to make of this revelation.  
"He's been sponsoring the local junior school team for many years, and he's got involved in coaching them since he's moved here full-time," Barman Harry explains.  
She absorbs this, then asks cheekily, "Is he any good?"  
The old man laughs. "No worse than any of the others round here. Although I have heard mumblings," he adds with a wink, "that the boys are picking up some naughty words from coach Harry."  
She chuckles, having no trouble at all to believe that. Silence descends on the bar as Ruth ponders all that she has learnt about Harry's new life, and a new sort of doubt begins to take seed.  
"He seems to have forged quite a full life out here," she muses softly. She sounds melancholy, causing Elsie to study her closely.  
The other woman seems to understand Ruth's fears, because she says firmly, "Yes, he has, but that's usually what people do to feel less lonely."  
She waits until Ruth looks at her before she adds, "He's been waiting for something, or some_one_. We could all see it. You're the missing piece in his life."  
Ruth takes a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed, and looks around her. Can this be it? Can this island be the place where they finally get to live the life they hardly dared dream of – together? God, she hopes so. She wants it so very, very much.

- 0 –

She drives to the house first, perversely prolonging the agony of her first glimpse of him a little longer. It is, perhaps, an unconscious attempt to persuade herself that there really is a place for her in Harry's new life. Her little car strains up the steep hill, and she curiously observes the modest houses that line it. This is no fancy neighbourhood where only the wealthy expats can afford to live, she notes with interest. Soon she reaches the end of the houses, and is aware of the old couple that takes close notice of her and her car as she passes the very last house. She has a sneaky suspicion that they form part of Harry's security measures; he has always put more store in humans than in technology. The road snakes up the hill for another half-mile before she suddenly comes upon a lone-standing house on its crest. It is a plain colonial-style house, but one with which she immediately falls in love. It has a wide veranda running around two sides of it, and a lush leafy garden dominated by large trees. A huge hammock is slung between two of these, and Ruth's imagination is immediately filled with images of the two of them spending lazy Sunday afternoons cuddling in it. And if it rains, they would move to the double swing seat, positioned on the veranda to ensure the best views over the bay below. She gets out to walk up to the low wall that surrounds the house and garden, and the sound of the car door closing causes a young puppy to come careening around the corner of the house, barking happily. When it realises that she is not the master of the house, it skids to a halt and surveys her uncertainly, head cocked to one side. She talks to it soothingly as she comes to a halt by the wall, staring at the house wistfully. "It's all right," she says, "hopefully I'll be living here too, one day."  
Her thoughts go back to a marriage proposal and her affirmative answer all those months ago; perhaps it will be sooner rather than later that this will be her home. That hope is further strengthened when she notices a cat sitting on the veranda wall, its tail neatly wrapped around itself. Harry has always been a dog person, so surely it is not too farfetched to assume that he got the cat for her? She somehow knows that she is right, and is touched by the gesture. Yes, maybe this will be her home sooner than she dares hope. She stands for a moment longer, enjoying the coolness of the breeze coming off the ocean, before she moves back to the car and heads to the cricket club.

- 0 –

The sight that greets her once she reaches it leaves her in no doubt as to the popularity of cricket in the West Indies. Cars are parked haphazardly all over the place, and those that must pick their way through the chaos do so with a good-humoured shrug of the shoulders. She hears no complaints as she makes her way to a vantage point on the low bank that surrounds the ground. The place is packed and everyone seems to be having a good time. Each action on the field is met with an enthusiastic roar of approval, no matter the level of skill exhibited. Ruth looks around in wide-eyed wonder, charmed by the scene. On the field a bunch of kids are energetically running around, gleefully diving after the red ball in sometimes comical attempts at fielding that only succeeds in covering their white cricket outfits in grassy stains. She scans the crowds, eager for her first glimpse of him after so long, and finally finds him, head covered by a wide-brimmed cricket hat and surrounded by a clutch of youngsters. Her heart skips a beat and she lets out a low sigh, unable to do more than drink in the sight of him.

- 0 -

Unaware of the scrutiny he is under, Harry paces the edge of the field and watches anxiously as his team faces the last over of the match. The result doesn't really matter, but he is well aware that they need four more runs to secure victory. He is, however, also aware that the young boy taking guard at that moment is prone to attempt the impossible, something which he has not yet been able to cure. So he watches with bated breath as the other team's bowler lopes in and attempts to bowl a bouncer.  
"Oh, no," Harry says, already knowing what is about to happen. The batsman's eyes light up and he takes a wild swipe at the ball, only succeeding in getting a top edge. Every eye in the ground follows the ball upwards into the cloudless sky, and Harry watches as the small opposition wicketkeeper circles under it, gloves held like a bucket in front of him.  
"Fingers should point _up_, lad," Harry mutters, forgetting for a moment that he is not that team's coach.  
The ball thuds into the gloves and the little boy hangs on, before throwing it back up in the air in triumph as he is swamped by his team mates.

Harry sighs and stands, hands on hips, waiting for his batsman to make his way off the field.  
"Ooh, Coach is making the teapot," a small voice whispers loudly behind Harry. "Melvin's in trouble now…"  
The Melvin in question plods off the field with slumped shoulders, dragging his bat behind him. He couldn't look more dejected if he tried and Harry has to fight hard to smother a smile. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.  
"Young Mister Harris," he says sternly as soon as the youngster is close enough, "what do you have to say for yourself?"  
Melvin comes to a stop in front of Harry and looks up at him with a woebegone expression.  
"I was gonna finish it in style, Coach, like the big men do," he mumbles sadly.  
"_Going_ to," Harry corrects automatically. He eyes the youngster a moment longer, trying to maintain his stern expression. "The big men, huh? What, like Brian Lara and Viv Richards you mean?"  
Melvin looks momentarily confused, then brightens. "No, not them! They're _old_! No, I meant like Chris Gayle in the T20 World Cup!" He mimes a couple of extravagant strokes, and Harry's face darkens.  
"Bloody T20 bollocks," he mutters. "It's ruining the game."  
A voice pipes up from behind Harry. "What's 'bollocks' mean?"  
"Er," one of the parents says hurriedly, "never you mind. It's another of those words only Coach Harry is allowed to use."  
She gives Harry a disapproving look which he ignores, his attention staying on Melvin. He squats down before him and asks, "And what would Chris Gayle have done differently than you?"  
The youngster frowns thoughtfully. "Keep his eye on the ball?" he ventures.  
"Good man," Harry says as he straightens up and ruffles the boy's hair. "Go and get your cooldrink from the icebox."  
Melvin skips away, but Harry calls him back. "Mister Harris?"  
The boy turns back.  
"If you had pulled it off, you would most certainly have ended it in style, just like Chris Gayle," Harry says warmly, and Melvin grins before running off.

He stands, looking on fondly as his charges cluster around the ice box, chattering to each other. The sight makes a feeling of warmth spread through him that almost covers the hole in his heart. Almost, but not quite. He squashes the thought, knowing that there is only one person who can fill it.  
_I'll find you_, she said.  
Harry takes a breath and shakes his head slightly. He has no claim on her; if she has changed her mind about that, he has no reason to hold it against her. But ever since he has read about Towers' dismissal, he has hoped. On the rare days that he is at home, he sometimes finds himself sitting on the veranda, his eyes drawn to the road at every sound of a car coming up the hill, fervently wishing. Of course, her finding him depends on her remembering that post-coital discussion in his bed and his mentioning of Harry's Hole. All he can do is hope that everything about that night is seared into her memory as deeply as it is in his. Sometimes he thinks he can remember every touch, both gentle and passionate, every word, every single breath they both took. God, how he hopes that it is the same for her.

He is brought out of his reverie by a tug on his shirt, and looks down to see the wicketkeeper of the opposition team standing beside him.  
"Coach Harry?" the boy asks, and Harry nods.  
"Here," the youngster says and holds out a folded piece of paper.  
Harry automatically takes it from the outstretched hand. His name is neatly written on the front, and he stops breathing. He knows that handwriting. He loves it.  
Mouth suddenly dry, he looks down at the boy. He wants to grab him, to shake every ounce of information out of him – where, when, who? _Where_? Instead he says, sounding for all the world like the calmest person on earth, "Thanks. Good game today. But next time you have to catch a high ball, you must do it like this."  
He demonstrates, holding his hands to form a reverse cup with the fingers pointing skywards, the precious note clutched firmly between middle-and-forefinger. "All right? Less chance of the ball popping out again that way."  
The boy watches with earnest eyes, then nods. "Okay, Coach. Thanks!" He darts off, back to his own teammates, and Harry's focus returns to the note.  
Could it be?  
He opens it reverently, as though it is a sacred ancient text. There is only one sentence written inside:  
_I've kept my promise._  
Heart hammering loudly in his ears, he lifts his head.

- 0 –

Ruth looks on as Harry carefully opens the note and reads the short message. She has been watching every shift in his expression since he has received it, has seen it change from wariness and confusion to realisation. When the boy leaves she sees it change to hope and longing, and he takes a few deep breaths to control the swelling emotion, unaware that she is doing exactly the same. He lifts his head and scans the crowd, looking for her. When his head turns in her direction she takes a step forward, and the movement draws his attention. His eyes find her, and the world seems to stand still as they stare at each other. Everything else melts away; it is only the two of them that exist in the moment. Harry closes his eyes and opens them again slowly, confirming that she is real, that she is not a figment of his imagination. She is still there, and he begins to move. He takes the hat off, and Ruth sees his eyes and his whole face light up with adoration as he moves towards her with long, determined strides. All her doubts evaporate, and she knows she has made the right choice to come. This is the right place, and it is the right time. It is _their_ time, finally.

He comes to a stop before her and his eyes search her face, looking for something. She's not sure what, but he seems to find it, for all the tension leaves him. He lifts a hand and touches her forearm with a sense of wonder, and as her warm skin connects with his, he smiles.

_Fin_

_A/N: The Soviets really did have an agent in the CIA during the 1980s. His name was Aldrich Ames and he betrayed every single Russian asset the CIA had during his time. He was finally caught in 1994._

_Thank you for reading._


End file.
